Nov 12 07:13:40 107 PA - Local Politics and Philosophy
From Chronicles
Nov 12 07:13:40 107 PA.
HARRY'S GYM: Local Politics and Philosophy
This morning, Vixen is in with the early risers, set to work on building herself up nicely. Though in a more guided way. A tall, well muscled man is speaking to her by one of the heavy bags in one corner of the gym, extolling on some topic quietly. Vixen herself is lightly dressed as all proper workout folk tend to be, with thinly padded gloves on her hands, protecting her knuckles. In answer to the man's words, Vixen turns towards the bag and settles back into a new, but practiced stance. Feet light, hands up in a guard, she squares off against the bag. A classic boxing stance. He nods and she starts to knock into the bag firmly, with a good sense of power and control. Fighting isn't a new thing to her.
The gym is a little bit redundant at this point in the day. All of the real exercising was completed shortly after sunup, out in his own little cove of harmony and along the small path that threads its way to the west. However, Gabriel still strides confidently into the workout establishment. Not one of those, 'oh hey look at me' confident strides, just one that says, 'I know who I am, and I don't care if you agree.' The machines, many of which were quite honestly foreign to him only two months ago, are looked over, and a small bag is dropped over in a convenient and unoccupied corner close to a six-armed man lifting weights. At least it looks like a man. His pocketed black jacket is slowly unclasped, exposing a fading dark-green T-shirt with an Eagle-Anchor-and-Globe emblazoned on it. However, aside from those with unusual numbers of limbs, most people aren't noticed.
"Good.. good," Vixen's trainer says, observing as she works at the bag. Her attack is decent, but what seems best is her footwork. The young woman is slippery, shifting in smooth, quick jerks and jinks from side to side. Hinting at the speed of her dodge. in her lighter garb one can see better a toned and well tended muscle tone, putting a healthy weight into her punches despite her otherwise petite stature. And her eyes are focused, Fixed on the target with a subtle narrow as she works the bag over hard and fast.
Hands are clapped together, rubbed vigorously, and Gabriel's head swivels around the room, apparently looking for the right piece of equipment. Now that the man's arms are exposed by the short sleeves of the T-shirt and cotton clinging to his chest, is suddenly abundantly clear that he is incredibly.. not exceptionally muscled. Sure, the muscles are obvious, but there's also an interesting - and probably purposeful - small layer of fat across them. But when he hops up and starts exercising, perhaps one of the important parts of his musculature comes in. Jumping up and grabbing a pull-up bar, he starts to do reps. Quick reps. Then just keeps going, and going. It's not supernatural, but certainly far beyond what the normal man would do. His eyes remain in directions other than the general populace, simply because of the geometric layout of the room.
This seems to be the last bit of her training for the day, as after about five more minutes, the man signals a halt and she slows, then stops her assault. "You're doing good, girl. Tomorrow, same time. We'll to a few rounds, see what you can do." Vixen grins at that and says, "Don't you try and play nice, man. Might be a girl, but I'll still knock you on your ass," she shoots back casually, which causes him to break out into an amused grin. He pats her shoulder and says, "Do your best." He goes and Vixen retains her casual smirk as she turns back to the bag. Eying it a moment, she goes at it with a hard one two, though three comes right up the middle, a hard, inappropriate kick given be fore she turns away and starts taking the gloves off as she approaches her bag.
"Hphffff..." Gabriel allows a quiet outlet of air as he releases the bar and lands back on his feet. Being short does occasionally have drawbacks - like having to leap higher than other people just to begin your exercises. He then turns on his heel, with his lower lips sticking out beyond the rest of his embouchure. His right eyebrow quirks up very slowly, like something being ratcheted, as apparently he's dissatisfied with the machines. Or at least the unoccupied machines. Strangely, he's never seen anyone using the one that looks like an Iron Maiden straight out of the Inquisition. But he does spot the woman across the way as she punches, kicks, and begins to remove gloves. The colonel begins to walk over toward her, making sure that he does remember her name, lifting a hand and waving it in greeting - it would be uncouth to raise his voice and yell, "Hello!" over the clatter of metal and biologic grunting.
Vixen is just rising up with a water bottle in hand when Gabriel comes over. She turns her head, a brow lifted slightly as she considers him. She doesn't answer at first. Perhaps just to let him get closer as she takes a long drink from the bottle. Up close, activity sweat is clear to see. Her bottle dips then and she says, "Hey. Had fun down at Laramy?" Her eyes linger on him, casually inspecting the man as if to come to some conclusion about him.
A hand is casually waved off. "I learned a lot about what the Coalition wants people to think it believes, whether or not they actually believe it themselves. I do think that on a number of issues, the Major was being honest." Gabriel shrugs. "Technically, he was so correct that I couldn't help but to concede the point. However..." he rolls his eyes "as a whole, the little rally was painful. Kind of like analyzing one of the films of Hitler giving a speech, except the language was easier to understand, and it was in color." That analogy brings a quirky smile to his lips. "You? Looked like you got a lot of film rolled."
Vixen snorts at what he says. "Half truth is still a damn lie," Vixen murmurs. "But that's why people have to be watching. Always watching fuckers like that and the whole Coalition." She shakes her head and takes another swig before she caps her bottle. "I got plenty. But the real gold is out there still. But I've always got my ear out. Can't relax anymore. Time to prepare." She dips, stuffing the gloves and bottle into her gym bag.
The older gentleman shifts his weight and crosses his surprisingly normal arms across his chest. At this close range can be seen the words, "Si vis pacem, para bellum," also embroidered on the high-quality T-shirt, above the insignia, but in muted colors. "Time to prepare for war? Invasion?" Gabriel allows the question to hang for a moment before adding, "That attack on them, out by Laramy. Hitler used a smaller excuse than that to roll over and annex Czechoslovakia. Seems reasonable that this place -" a hand is waved to indicate the city "- could easily be next, right? I didn't get the feeling that they much care for people living here to begin with."
Vixen smirks. "You must be new. The threat is always there. Has been for as long as I remember." She shrugs. "Right now, the Coalition is all over Tolkeen. Don't mean they won't come here, but they got bigger fish to fry. But eventually.." She shrugs. "They talk a good line, but it all comes down to one thing. If you're not in lock step with them, you're against them. But they probably got spies everywhere around here.. you could be one of 'em." That last said casually, as if even if that were true she wouldn't be worried. Or perhaps she doesn't believe that.
The man purses his lips a little, raises his left eyebrow, and nods a few times. "I sure could be. Definitely human enough, right?" But after what is probably just a moment of gallows humor, he dusts his chin in the younger woman's direction. "So when you said, 'time to prepare,' what exactly did you mean? Can't relax anymore? Has anything really changed, save for being ready to show your papers if you get caught by a patrol when you go to Laramy?" Gabriel's arms uncross, then his hands search for, and find his pant pockets.
"For one, the Laramy thing is new," Vixen replies. "If they're starting to send out slick operators like that to roll the small time folk, then it's about time to put another voice out on the air." She considers, then adds, "Might be time to set up for some longer range too." Her lips purse and she considers that potential. "Going to be resurrecting my broadcast. So hope you still have that card. You ought to listen to that frequency now and then. Going to be some truth spoken over it once I'm prepared. And it ain't like they're going to take it lightly, the Deadboys. But I'm going to be ready if they come gunning for me."
"More truth?" Gabriel makes a strange twisting move with his shoulders and neck. "From whose point of view, yours? The truth can be a very dangerous thing, even in the hands of the right people. Information can be stated in a completely truthful way that means something completely different." A certain tone in his voice would seem to indicate that he knows, or at least believes, in what he's saying. "The truth is difficult, because there's truth on every side and every shade of gray. The only real way - if you'll allow me to insult you like this - to get the real truth to the people is to get a dozen other people doing their reports, too. Perhaps not so much selective picking of stories." His hands come out of his pockets and are clasped at the small of his back. "History is written by the victors, and the present is guided by selective facts. Even in the best of intention, this cannot be avoided." His drawl was absent during this little expulsion of opinion, one phrased in words far more meaningful than his usually easy grammar and vocabulary.
"Then let the dozen people get their own set ups and start talking," Vixen says simply. "No one here is stopping them from doing that. The Coalition?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Reporting on them going around, killing defenseless people is pretty straightforward. Them keeping their people stupid and complacent is pretty simple too. The Coalition is easy when it comes to telling the truth. Only problem is digging it up. But I have my ways."
"Really." Gabriel seems to drop the subject of truth, quirking his head to the left and gazing at Vixen sideways. "City girl, right? I know something about cities, myself. Didn't have digital cameras, though." He rolls a hand out sideways, the palm out. "Apologies, but you don't strike me as the wilderness type. I'm rather used to both, but to choose, if it's only me, I'll live outside the walls any day."
"I've been out there. Enough to know I like the urban jungle better," Vixen replies simply. "I know the predators here better. And how to keep clear of them and their territory. But it don't matter. With my broadcast, I can reach out hundreds of miles without having to go out there. And since I have capital, I don't need to live off merc work. One of the keys to living longer and happier that a lot of guys don't figure out."
One little statement in there brings a wide, ironic grin to Gabriel's face. "You think I'm a mercenary?" The silly smile remains, and that's all he asks.
Vixen shrugs. "As good a guess as any. Hell of a lot of mercs around here. Even if it's just part-timers or freelancers. You go out and shoot things and get paid to do it, even if you only do it once in a while, it's still merc work." She picks up her bag and says. "So? Nothing wrong with it as long as you know what you're getting yourself into."
Gabriel continues to smile, but looks down toward his feet for a moment, while his head shakes smoothly side to side. "Well, ironically enough, I'll give those definitions as 'truth.' They're probably apt. But just because someone owns a set of beat-up armor and a rifle doesn't mean that he or she is a mercenary. You know, just like every pretty face and silky voice isn't a propaganda spewer for a higher power." The man winks over at the younger woman, hopefully indicating that 'truths' are being said, but in jesting manners.
Vixen snorts and shakes her head slightly. "I don't do silk." Which would be about right. Her voice leans more towards flinty and obviously her manner is.. straightforward. At least, it is at times. "And I don't do propaganda. My agenda is telling what's going on. That's what I did before, that's what I'm going to do now. That's how its always going to be."
"That's the way it should always be. Though no one, living or dead can have an agenda and be an impartial reporter of fact at the same time," the older man says with a slight shrug. His hand jumps up to scratch what is apparently a sudden itch on his neck, before it is lowered back to his waist again. Gabriel's next words are far less pointed. "Where do you broadcast from? You seemed to indicate that you're, ah... perhaps well, off? At least more than the normal man? Do you have your own place, or do you use one of the local antennas?" He seems genuinely interested.
"I'm comfortable," Vixen replies. "And I broadcast from a discreet location. Don't need to Deadboys finding me just yet. And word tends to get around once it gets started. Very private person." A faint smirk comes. "Why do you ask? If you're looking for creds, I don't hand them out for nothing. Besides, 'wealthy' is a word that can mean a lot. Compared to a lot of folk? I'm stinking rich. Compared to the elites? Poor as hell."
Gabriel waves off the question. "No, no. My extensive knowledge of electronics ends with vacuum tubes. Besides, I'd never be able to fill in for you. A lot of people have a tough time with the drawl." Wink. "I like private people. We were always very private, the whole family." He taps the ring on his right hand, and then his face quirks up into another wide smile. "I grew up with nothing, monetarily. I have basically nothing now, monetarily. But two months ago, I was the fourth richest man in the world. It'll never show up in the history books that way, but it's fact. If you're smart, careful, lucky, willing to take big risks - which I was at the time - and also good at making already wealthy people think you're an idiot... well, there's a lot of money to be made in poker and baccarat." With a happy shrug, Gabriel then washes away all pretense that he actually cares, other than that it was a period of his life.
Vixen frowns faintly. "History books?" She shakes her head. "Who the hell are you, man? How would you know who in the world is rich? Ain't heard much about the rest of the world except what little gets around from people what go over there and come back. What I really think? You're not all there in the head. Talking to invisible people and all the other weird stuff you spout. Better than being violent I guess. I don't stay around violently insane people. Not good for the health."
There's a slight chuckle. "Oh, I don't know, even violently insane people can be ignored, as long as they're violently predictable." Gabriel sticks his tongue out just enough to indicate that it's a tease. "Who the hell am I? Like I said, I try to be a private person. Wouldn't hurt you to split your gym time with library time, maybe. Although I doubt even this city's library has the necessary ones listed its Card Catalog. Knowledge is power, doesn't matter what your endeavor is." He then smiles again - not such a wide smile, but a smile. "You don't buy my history, that's fair. I wouldn't expect you to. And, as good as books are, I'm not a librarian, and there are only certain types of, ah, literature, that I read quickly. You mind filling me in on some local history? Maybe I could buy you coffee, or hit the soda fountain or something?"
Vixen frowns faintly and shakes her head as she says, "Street smart is better than book smart for me. I ain't worried about history. What's done is done, too much right now to worry about and I can't really disbelieve your history when I don't know it. But it don't matter." She eyes him, then says, "What sort of local history?"
"Well, here, let me start big. My watch," he raises his left wrist to display a black, analog wrist-watch obviously manufactured to be durable, not pretty, "said 2:14 pm, September 27, 1959. Short story, big flash, I wake up, wander around, people tell me it's 107 PA, a calendar on which I have no reference point, and oh, by-the-way, science-fiction is fact, and those fairy-tales your grandmother told you about magic are true. I'm not looking for a lecture on the subject, but as far as I'm concerned, Eisenhower is President, the Los Angeles Dodgers just won the World Series, and some shit-ass country called North Vietnam invaded another shit-ass country called Laos, and they want me to give a damn." His eyes sort of glass over, then get rolled. Sigh. "Sorry, I'm sure you don't care, and don't feel like explaining." He inhales... holds it... and exhales. "Perhaps I should be moving along."
Vixen frowns faintly and then shrugs her shoulders. "Seen enough shit. Maybe what you say is true. Or maybe you hit your head and think that's what's up.. either way it don't really matter to me. Dunno just when.. 1959 was, but it don't much matter to what's now. The old world is long gone. Hundreds of years at least. Depends what the year was when the cataclysm hit. Never much cared, that's ancient history. And if you just hit your head.. well, like I said, you don't look dangerous." She glances towards one of the walls, noting a time piece. "I should get moving. I have some people to meet about business." She looks back to him. "You want to know some stuff, maybe we can talk later. But some info ain't free. At least, not from someone like me. But we can hash that over then."
Something about that statement elicits an amused grunt from the colonel from times past. Just a "Hmm!" and his chest bounces, puffing a tad. He then begins to turn toward where his own small pack is resting. "Thanks for talking, Miss Vixen. You sure you're not Rita Hayworth?" A pleasant nod is given, a nonexistent hat is tipped, and Gabriel moves off.
"Dunno who that is, but I'm sure you'll tell me eventually," Vixen replies, though she doesn't seem too interested in the unknown hers. She casually lifts a hand before she turns to head for the change rooms.
