Le Candidat et l'Architecte (Closed RP)

Paris

Klaus sat in a high-class restaurant alone at a table, desolate save for the waiting staff. Connections and power had their perks, and casually removing the other aristocratic patrons of the respected establishment had taken but a snap of his fingers. He sat in anticipation of a meeting between himself and Quinn Mercier had proven a popular candidate in the French Presidential Election thus far, having announced his status as candidate with an enthusiasm often absent from American politicians these days. His most recent speech had attracted Lichter's attention, and of course, a meeting had been set up.

He wore a black suit with a green vest and tie, gold-colored cuffs resting on the ends of his sleeves. Sparkling water rested in a glass on the table, menus flat. He steeped his fingers and sang a symphony in his head as he waited, expression blank. He'd brushed up on his French, and while his vocabulary would be sufficient, he felt as though his accent might be slightly noticeable.

It irked him terribly.

@cognus_

@lichter:

Quinn was practically brimming with curiosity as he passed through the mahogany doors that lead into the main dining hall of the noble, but not too regal restaurant. It was not uncommon for men and women of influence to meet in counsel here, but it was exceedingly out of the ordinary that it was void of all life, say for a single man postured imposingly at the center table and Quinn himself. While the Presidential hopeful did consider himself a man of reputation, this pre-established encounter was paramount in a completely different caliber than what he had been accustomed to.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Monsieur”

The silver tongued scamp confessed his honest guilt through a heavy french accent whilst straightening the collar of his alabaster shirt from beneath the sapphire hued vest. His clothing seemed a tad modest and especially so when compared in the same light as his seated guest, but it was expensive nonetheless. A blessing of his relatively vast wealth.

He pulled out a chair and fixed his gaze to the man sitting before him, gesturing for a server to retrieve wine. A simple motion of his hand was sufficient enough for the waiter to reappear with two sanguine filled glasses just as quickly as he left. Water had already been placed upon the table yes, but this was France. Where wine was a customary display of goodwill and solidarity.

“I can’t help but wonder with a childish interest, what it is that attracted the attention of so many men of power to my nation’s doorstep.”

He spoke with a charming impression through a short, but intentionally noticeable chuckle as was his typical characteristic before leaning gingerly in his own chair.

@cognus_:

Klaus smiled, nodding as his guest approached. The candidate boasted the smile of a practiced politician and the build of a confident man, his swagger undoubtedly enough to disarm even the most cynical voters in his presence. Thus far he was practically unopposed, party lines disintegrating throughout the nation in support of the robust speaker. He took one of the glasses, reaching into his pocket with lithe fingers to drop a small pill into it. It dissolved, bubbling.

"For my health," he said offhandedly with a tiny grin, placing the wineglass back on the table with the dissolved chemical inside.

"It is nice to finally meet you, Monsieur Mercier. Not often does one have the chance to meet with a man who might rally an entire country behind his platform in the span of a few weeks," he said with a smile. His slick hair betrayed not a single bead of sweat, brown-black eyes resting behind an aquiline nose. Only quiet music played in the room. Klaus tapped the table twice with his index finger.

"I'm curious...what made you want to run for office?" he asked, grinning slightly.

@lichter:

Quinn was a little curious as to what exactly the crimson capsule was that his host had consumed, but did his best to hold the inquisitive look that so desperately wanted to display itself. He nudged the analytical thoughts from his mind and returned his attention back to the discussion at hand. Truly, this was a man that carried a weight of regal, but practically radiated with power. It was intimidating to an extent, but also admirable. Qualities Quinn himself had strived to exemplify.

“The pleasure is all mine, Good Sir.”

He tilted his head in a polite nod with a genuine smile before replying.

“What makes anyone want to run for political office? I’ll spare you the details, but honestly…I see a world filled with horrors and tragedies that were unimaginable 20 years ago. I see France threatened to befall the same fate as her counterparts. She is not yet ready to brace the terrors of war. I want peace above all else, but to do so, we must prepare for war.”

He grasped the glass stem of his wine and sipped it slowly, allowing the aged and fermented grapes to subtly trigger his taste buds. The Spanish cultivated barrel it was stored in was perfectly kept and it showed well. The Presidential hopeful let out a barely audible sigh before continuing.

“It’s truly sad that we must learn from the United States where our flaws are, but better one country be an example for others, instead of two.”

He placed the glass back upon the table and stared at it’s contents. The haunting memories of the past seemed to be swirling in it’s fluid while he stared remorsefully. His words were inconsiderate, but held much truth.

“If I may ask a question of my own now….It’s not very often that I am called to discuss such matters without a camera crew and handful of recorders. May I ask what sparked such a conversation?”

A raised eyebrow trailed the question as he was genuinely interested. The discussion had went well and Quinn had been authentically enjoying himself, but many people of power had hidden agendas. Plays that would move themselves in the game of chess like the world was the playing board. Why should this be any different?

@cognus_:

Klaus let a wry smile play across his lips, shrugging ever so slightly as he sipped from the now-carbonated glass.

"Powerful men ought to stick together, no? I make it a point to be well-connected. It's one of my greatest strengths."

He replaced the glass on the table. Quinn, so far, had yet to subvert any of his expectations. He seemed an ordinary well-off French politician, even if the meat of their conversation had not yet been reached.

"Might I ask what will be first on your agenda, should you win?" he inquired, tapping his fingers together softly.

@lichter:

Despite having a great deal of secrets with most of his private life shrouded in mystery, Quinn was a rather straightforward man. Given the circumstances and the man sitting across from him, the French politician was more frank than usual.

"Can I trust you, Klaus?"

He didn't wait for a response. He was more than impatient to share his vision. Perhaps a flaw that would cause his downfall in the future, but for now, he was too eager to speak his desires to those that held influence.

"One word. Extermination. The extermination of the entire Mutant population. Beginning with Venezuela. Once the French forces have been supplemented and bolstered of course."

He waited for a response earnestly, reaching for his wine glass once more. Lost in his fantasy, but a nightmare for others.

@cognus_:

"The extermination of the Mutant race. Beginning with Venezuela. Once the French forces have been supplemented and bolstered of course."

Klaus blinked twice in rapid succession, a small smile creeping up his face. The aquiline grin was accompanied by a curious internal mixture of both mirth and intense discomfort. Of every time he'd had to maintain a poker face, this was perhaps the hardest. He looked at his wine glass, deciding not to go anywhere near it for the rest of the night. He'd made it safe, yes, but it was still...unusual. One would suppose Quinn had a weak liver, yet he simply sat across the table, beaming as he awaited a response. Was he truly sitting aside a reincarnated Fuhrer?

He turned his head only slightly to the side, fixing his right eye alone on Quinn.

"I'm afraid you lost me with that one, Monsieur. I rather like mutants, in spite of my status as a human. I respect them." There would be no chance for Quinn to interrupt as he continued. He addressed him again, this time without a formal title; somehow, his words were graver than ever.

He sighed.

"My greatest talent, Quinn, is to foresee patterns. As a German, I can tell you...I have great experience with national pride. As a German, I can tell you...I know a fascist when I see one."

He shook his head back and forth. He had a gut feeling, one that would not be ignored this time.

"I can tell you that I will never abide by another holocaust for as long as I live. Mutant or otherwise."

He removed the napkin from his lap, standing quietly. He sighed, then flicked his hand upwards, fingers contorted and thrust away from his body. His arm shot forward, and behind it, a well of power, a veritable shockwave of destructive energies gathered within the minute cufflinks on his wrist. The invisible energies coursed through the air fast enough to heat it, a ripple of hazy electric-like might cascading towards Quinn with enough pressure to tear a steel bulwark asunder, a veritable mount of unseen dynamite exploding from the Architect's palm...and directed precisely towards Quinn's presumably unprotected body.

@lichter:

Before Quinn could retort, the air filled with a sense of electromagnetism. An ethereal voltage reverberated throughout the restaurant as the currents of destructive power expeditiously discharged towards the French Politician’s figure. It's catalytic force carried enough potential to rip apart a living organism down to the molecular level if it had struck him. Quinn however, refused to evade or retaliate, but remained fixed in a standstill position. The current poured to his anterior, but emerged from his backside with so much as a scathe. The anatomy of Quinn fizzled a little like a television screen that had temporarily lost signal, but soon reformed back to his visage.

“Quite frankly, I am truly sorry you feel this way, Klaus.”

An authentic frown crossed his facial features. The disappointment was practically tangible as he gave no misrepresentation to how he had felt.

“I’m not foolish enough to presume that you would play a hand in doing what must be done….But I was hopeful nonetheless.”

A faint, almost regretful smile replaced the remorseful glare.

“I also apologize that I could not be present in physical form and had to resort to holographic technology to deceive you, but as you can see…I also have a capacity to discern events that may transpire. If you won’t stand with me, stand out of my way.”

He bowed his head respectfully, even with the recent violent outburst that had occurred before dissipating into thin air. Despite having such a chaotic and ruinous endeavor, Quinn was still a gentleman and held Klaus Von Lichter in the highest regard undeterred by his mutant sympathy….The Masked Marauder perhaps, failed to share the same sentiment.

@cognus_:

Klaus' brow knit in confusion, the fizzling image of Quinn still smirking before him. The waiter, whom he presumed was real, cowered in the corner; he clenched his fists as he realized he'd somehow been deceived. Hologram technology? Impossible. Quinn had pulled out his own chair, drunk from his wine glass; he'd seen it with his own two eyes. Everything upon the table had been blown away, the energy ripping it from where it sat; Quinn left with some scathing remarks he barely heard, flickering before vanishing. Indignant rage welled up within him, having realized he'd revealed his powers as well as his lack of allegiance to the cause. The waiter continued to whimper; enraged, Klaus turned to him, a metal glove materializing on his hand.

He thrust his arm upwards, dragging the waiter by the neck to his position. Suspended in his air, the poor Frenchman clawed at his constricting throat, having born witness to what had previously transpired; Klaus' wicked eyes grew soft, weary. He turned away, contorting one of his fingers to reveal a small light. It flashed bright, utterly blinding the attendant and leaving him helpless to the power of suggestion.

"Tremblement de terre," he muttered, releasing the now-hypnotized waiter from where he held him several feet above the ground. He'd remember nothing. "Dormez." The man fell asleep.

A hologram...impossible. I would have known.

He grabbed the bottom of the table with the gauntleted hand, throwing it and everything which remained atop it crashing to the side. Telekinetically probing the entire area, he sought out the one constant he knew had to be true. For there to be a hologram in such a confined space, there would need to be a projector; for it to be transmitting Quinn's reactions in real time, there would of course be a transmitter. Such a device, undoubtedly more complex than anything Klaus had dealt with before in the field of subterfuge, would lead him to wherever Quinn's base had been at the time of transmission.

He sought the transmitter, and when he had it, he'd use his technology to trace the last location it transmitted from. He'd tear up the floorboards if he had to. No conclusion short of Mercier's utter destruction would satisfy him, were he truly the murderous fascist he wholeheartedly claimed to be. He waited silently to see if he could find the holographic projector, for there had to be one; were the hologram of any mystical nature, the Octarine Oscillator would have interrupted it. Duped and enraged, he seethed, wood splintering around him as he eviscerated the remainder of the diner in pursuit of Mercier's trick.

A Minute Later

The beeping holoprojector hovered an inch above his palm, torn from beneath the chair with the wiring still intact. He smiled.

Time to call a few old friends.