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Who: Irene Adler and Charles Xavier
What: Two cheats play a guessing game.
Where: Queequeg's, Mog Hill.
When: Misdi evening.
Warnings: TBA. Irene's existence, maybe?

Irene Adler loves to play games. It's a fact of her existence. Without games, things get boring and people get lax; she likes to keep herself sharp at all times.

Of course, that doesn't mean she can't cheat. Not that she views searching out information on the mystery man (not such a mystery anymore) she's promised to meet as cheating, because that would imply there are actually any rules. He seemed confident, anyway, which to Irene suggests that he knows something she doesn't. In a way, looking him up is only leveling the playing field.

His name is Charles Xavier and he has been known to wear a fetching (read: eyebrow-raising) Kevlar get-up. He spends a lot of time chatting to one particular friend, can give first aid advice and is apparently active in the xenian community- curious, because he looks human. (This isn't something she's ever had to take into account before, she has to admit). Perhaps it's to do with his job and his interests, or perhaps he's one of their number. Right now, it's impossible to tell. She knows that he's clever and wants to challenge her, and that she's taken a shine to him. It's enough.

She arrives at Queequeg's reasonably early, all in black- black pencil dress with capped sleeves, black coat that conceals all but an inch of the dress in question, spiky black heels, sheer black seamed stockings (it is cold outside), black leather gloves- she looks, as ever, predatory. Her make up is precise and dramatic and her hair is twisted into an elegant updo, and she's apparently checking her lipstick in a compact- while actually using it to search the faces for the one that she wants without anybody wondering what she's staring out. Without, in short, giving herself away.

It's packed enough to slow her down; she doesn't see him just yet. Still, that's fine. She's confident. Heaven knows what he's got up his sleeve- but it's not enough to beat the fact that she has, essentially, already tied him to his face. Already won, really.

In her opinion, at least.

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Her eyes widen.

Fascinating.

After all, it's one thing to have that sort of knowledge. Applying it requires quite a different sort of ingenuity- and using it to try and wine a guessing game against a stranger in a strange city is particularly sneaky, dancing on the edge of unethical and certainly taking any chance to show off.

Which is absolutely charming, really.

If it's true, anyway. Admittedly, it's the only explanation she can think of but he's the one who's given it to her, and she's a seasoned liar who knows that particular trick all too well. After all, what does she know about genetics? It's never been her area. He sounds convincing and she's inclined to believe him- but heaven knows what he's actually just said. It might be utter nonsense said in a confident tone.

"And so you are," she agrees nonetheless, looking impressed. She is impressed, no matter what he did. "All that from one look? I was wondering what you had up your sleeve that made you so convinced you'd win."

A part of him feels guilty for lying so easily, so readily, when there is an open xenian society in Baedal. It's not that he's ashamed of being a mutant so much that he's used to a lifetime of passing as human, and all the fears of being caught that come along with it. It's difficult to break out of that mindset.

And in these uncertain times, with bigoted terrorists afoot, one can never be to careful of what they're walking into.

Besides which, if Irene does prove interesting enough to become a more permanent acquaintance or even friend (and it's certainly shaping up to be that way, or at least he hopes so), he'll have no problem with letting her in on his secret. He only hopes that charm of his will excuse this little instance.

"Child prodigy, I'm afraid. We come bearing gifts. Although thankfully not as detrimental as the Greeks." And with a small, widening smile, "Of course you are exceptionally good yourself."

Although he has the benefit of knowing how Irene did her trick. Either way, it's still brilliant.

"Of course," Irene agrees; modesty is for other people. "And from the fact that you're not asking questions, you must know how I did it. Don't miss a trick, do you?"

She slips her compact into her bag, smile lingering on her lips. He's very good. She wonders if he limits himself to impressing strangers, and finds herself doubting it. This, after all, is a show-off through and through. And a do-gooder. Brilliant, excited to be brilliant, but also someone who wants to make the world better so much that they exhaust themselves trying.

That's a very exciting combination indeed.

"So. We'll just have to each buy our own drinks, and either forget the forfeit or do one each." She glances up, giving him a curiously conspiratorial smile. "And I think I threatened thousands of questions."

"I have my suspicions." And it's accompanied by a boyish, bordering on flirtatious smile (not that he thinks this is going in that direction --this is something else entirely). But he doesn't say any more on the matter; even if he had reached the right conclusion without his powers, it's best not to show off too much.

However, at the mention of 'forfeit,' his eyes flick in a mildly questioning glance. Intriguing. In the meantime, he waves down one of the waiting staff so they can at least take care of one of those issues.

"I may have a few of my own, but feel free to ask away." Although for the moment, he turns to look up at the newly arrived waitress come to take their order. "A macchiato, please."

Irene returns the smile- and gives the waitress one of a similar kind. Flirting, again, is her default setting; it's simply how she relates to the rest of the world. "And a cafe medici for me, thank you," she says, vaguely impressed when there's no answer of 'what?' This is no Starbucks, then.

(Stuck-up? Perhaps, but a girl has to find a place in the world somehow.)

She returns her eyes to Charles, and inquires, "Do you get bored easily?"

After all, he's a child prodigy with a job he seems to deem exceedingly rewarding, and she can't imagine that he's friendless- and yet here he is, being reckless and playing games with a stranger.

Queequeg's does magical things with coffee beans (not actually. ...probably). That was the other reason Charles chose this place.

"I," and he pauses, looking ceilingwards for a minute with an open-mouthed smile, "wouldn't say it's boredom so much as I become curious very easily." Which is true; when you know as much as he does, the trick is to keep coming up with new things to pursue. Especially when that knowledge can lead to better circumstances for others. Sometimes risks arise (like kidnapping a CIA agent with telepathic influence or trying to save someone from drowning themselves while lifting a bloody submarine) but that's a price he's willing to pay.

"Let's ignore the old adage about cats for now, though. You, of course, want to gain information. On anything and everything. But particularly something you may find...useful. Or interesting. Is that a case of making your own entertainment, or something else?"

To Irene, at least, that amounts to a similar thing; a constant search for something new and fascinating. She takes it on board- and leans back at his question.

There's a smile on her lips. It's genuine, but so is the sharp glint in her eyes. "I do make my own entertainment," she says, chin tilted up, eyeing him thoughtfully. "But I also make my way in the world. In any world."

And that would be the years of drama training coming through. That answer's technically evasive, but it's got a nice ring to it.

It does indeed. But for the sake of the conversation, Charles focuses on Irene's words while regarding her dress, her mannerisms, the general way she presents herself.

"I believe you. In fact, I have a feeling you'll do remarkably well in this city." Which isn't the case for everyone and, for a moment, his thoughts slip away to the barely adult xenians who seem to arrive in Baedal by the dozen.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," she drawls, watching him closely and thinking again about what sort of man uses 'rewarding' and 'exhausting' to describe the same basic principle.

"Though it's not an easy city to do well in," she adds, curious to see how he'll respond. It's fairly clear she's not speaking out a lack of confidence- she's referring to other people. She might not know many yet, but she can draw her own conclusions as to how life in Baedal often goes. Quickly, for one thing.

"No." There's the slightest frown while he thinks that over. "No, it's not. It's different for grown adults who have received an education or are trained in an occupation. But it's difficult for those in their late-teens and other vulnerable people."

That may also give some clue as to why he uses two words.

"And with people showing up and disappearing regularly, there's no way to tell who is safe and who has slipped through the cracks." Although Charles doesn't sound like the type of person planning to sit back and watch terrible events unfold around him.

Apart from investigating.

Except the last time she got overly interested in anyone's investigations, she'd ended up having to fake her own death twice while stringing along not one, not two, but three geniuses, and had only narrowly missed (not through lack of trying) bringing the nation to its knees.

Well. Different worlds. Different situations. If he's going to act- and he seems like that sort- he's going to cause a stir; if there's going to be trouble, she'll have to back the winning side.

That and there's something interesting about his already-apparent sympathies. She's calculating, she knows that, maybe even cold, but she's far from unsympathetic, in her own way. She doesn't want to save the world, though. People who do generally end up hurting themselves in the process.

"But you try, I think," she says thoughtfully, not taking her eyes off him.

Investigation only gets you so far when there are all sorts of nasties lurking about a city like Baedal. The key, of course, is building up contacts and resources, which is something Charles has already started the beginnings of in his first month here.

"I do." There's a definite firmness to the way he says it. "I'm not about to let myself become content."

With anything about the set-up in Baedal. Granted he doesn't intend to rock the boat so much as cause a slight ripple. He's privvy to the machinations of how people's minds work, how everything slots together in the big, messy picture, which means he's not about to do anything stupid. Perish the thought, in fact.

She watches with interest, but all the same:

"Mr Xavier, I could be anyone."

She hasn't been in the city long, but she knows when people should avoid running their mouths. Not does she take him for an idiot; he must trust her, at least, not to run off to inform the Militia. True, he hasn't said much, but she suspects the Militia doesn't need much to get involved.

"But you're not." He doesn't have many tells --not to most humans, anyway, who excuse slight slips in conversation and fall for what they think is an effortless charm-- but he can see Irene is already picking up on the little details.

He bites his lip, looking at her thoughtfully. "What was that phrase you used again? You're so sharp you might end up cutting yourself."

Now he's just teasing. Which isn't helped by:

"Besides, I don't know what you're getting at. All I'm talking about is starting a charity run community resource that helps young citizens. Stopping them from becoming --what's the term they use? Strangers."

Which is precisely all he's been talking about. His slight involvement in counter terrorist movements against anti-xenian factions is kept purely to himself, and it's not something he's about to reveal to anyone outside the parties already involved. Irene is simply left to look into his wide, innocent blue eyes.

Irene knows better than to fall for effortless charm, because she's usually on the other side of that particular equation, happily drawing people in.

"How noble," she says, sounding thoughtful. There might be something subtly surprised in her tone- Irene doesn't meet many noble people, after all- but it's far from overt. "It was just your wording. From the information-" propaganda "-given to us, it seems 'becoming content' in Baedal is the whole idea." And his determined refusal is fascinating, even if his plans only involve charity.

The waitress returns with coffee, and Irene gives her a smile- "Ah, lovely." She looks very predatory, but there's a self-aware wryness that suggests that it's alright, relax, she's the good sort of slightly scary. (This is a complicated act, and absolutely not true). "Thank you, Amanda." Name tags are wonderful things.

He watches the exchange between Irene and 'Amanda' with a subtle sort of curiosity. There's something a little bit more to that smile, which isn't something Charles is used to seeing in same sex interactions.

Once he takes his coffee with a quick 'thank you' to the waitress, he addresses what Irene said. "It seems to be. Unfortunately I've recently become very tired with staying content. Twelve years in academia will do that." And he gives a little smile at the joke before taking a sip.

She grins over her coffee cup, not quite sure what to make of how he'd watched her and the waitress. Well- perhaps curiosity was harmless.

"One more young man lost to the dangerous influence of education. It ought to be banned."

"Hm." It's a small, one chuckle as he sets his cup down again. "They keep trying. People only like scientists when they reaffirm what they already know. Wonderfully pointless."

"Well, I'm sure it isn't nice to be proved ill-informed and wrong all the time." She talks like it never happens to her; wry on one level, because no one is infallible, but on another almost boasting, making jokes about her own- well- brilliance.

What's modesty? Sounds dangerous.

"That's why you broke out, then? It was pointless and you wanted to do more?"

"You'd think they'd be used to it by now." Which is slightly more derisive than Charles is prone to, but there you go. He's certain Irene isn't about to tell him off any time soon.

"More like the formalities were done with. I'm an expert in the area I wanted to be recognised in; anything else I can learn how I like. So," and he pinches his fingers together, "only a little pointless. I had planned on traveling with my sister, but I received a good offer not long after finishing my second thesis. More practical application and some excellent company."

She chuckles at that. It's nice when nice people aren't nice. And she likes how he throws around the word 'expert'; she likes people with self-confidence. In fact, she likes people who are cocky. Flaws interest her more than virtues.

(This is a good reason why her relationships never last that long).

"Genetic counselling is good company? Or was this back at home?"

"Back home." Charles' expression immediately betrays the fondness he has for the people he's talking about. "I miss them. Well, I should say I miss most of them. A good friend of mine was already here."

That, at least, he seems happier about. "Although genetic counselling hasn't been bad so far."

"Really," she says, sounding thoughtful and surprised. "Lucky." She had been considering that particular issue- best not to press him, though, lest it become too clear that she'd rather a few people from back home not follow her here.

"Working with people's nice," she purrs idly, shifting in her seat. "Always something new. They add an unpredictable element- I'd get bored flicking through papers all day, no matter how interested I was in their contents. And job satisfaction is too mild a term, of course; you don't get Christmas cards from a PhD."

Yes, she has been known to get Christmas cards from some of her repeat clients, the ones who are useful enough or fun enough to at least be made to feel as if they've accessed a closer, more personal social circle.

"Very," he says, and his eyes brighten a little as he smiles, before giving a small half shrug (he wouldn't want to appear as though he's gloating, especially when that's not the case). "And it's someone to split the rent with."

"Extremely unpredictable --Baedal's genetic mix is much more interesting than anywhere else back home. And the Glory Shada is an interesting place to work at." There is perhaps the briefest hesitation before he settles on the word 'interesting,' although it definitely applies.

"You can think of other words for it," she says, in a tone which is highly amused and perhaps slightly encouraging.

What? He seems so nice. He can afford to speak his mind a little, surely?

"Not polite ones," he finally concedes, with a boyish if mischievous smile. "Nor impolite, not exactly. 'Interesting' is a very neutral word for dealing with our patron goddess."

So nice. And only saying that much because he knows Irene won't be scandalised, but not more because it would seem too forward, given the circumstances.

Irene doesn't get it for a split second as she rifles through her memories, trying to remember what she knows about Shada; there had been information on the pamphlet and in various other informational pamphlets (propaganda).

And then she remembers, properly, what Shada stands for and why she'd liked her so much.

"Oh," she says, highly amused- interesting, really, that's funny- "I bet. Careful, though. 'Interesting' could mean absolutely anything." A beat, and she finishes, deadpan: "Less virtuous people than I might assume the worst."

"It could," he says, in reference to 'mean anything.' And his eyebrows rise in mock surprise, which is promptly ruined by, "Either way, I'm fairly certain a chair at Oxford wouldn't have been quite so entertaining."

Why yes, he can be slightly impudent when it pleases him and he's in the right company.

Irene's laugh is throaty and far from clean; it's with deep satisfaction that she remarks, "Don't be so quick to assume- there are stories I could tell you about an Oxford professor I knew which could curl your hair."

She dangles the prospect for a second with a smile which could be considered flirtatious, though she's not flirting as most people do- it's simply how she relates to the rest of the world, really.

"Though I shouldn't. Confidentiality and so on."

...says the woman who nearly extorted millions from the British government by using her clients' secrets as leverage.

But then again, that makes sense. Secrets are valuable- no one wants to pay money for something everyone knows. Not that this is relevant in Baedal, but it's a habit she's picked up.

Charles is practically one step away from gritting his teeth in an attempt to hold off from reading Irene's mine. But he knows that if it is as bad as she's is making it out to be, he won't be able to hide the reaction on his face. What do.

"A secret that's worlds away, now. Please, go on. I think I could do with some hair curling." Nevermind that he's practically fidgeting in impatience.

"Nonsense, it's too nice as is," Irene says, leaning back.

The Oxford professor in question had been, at home, one of her old favourites- he'd been coming to her for years. She smiles slowly and glances upwards, looking thoughtful. "And I'm not sure he deserves it."

Look, she's nice! ...and alright, fine, Charles is practically vibrating in his seat with curiosity. It's endearing. She wants to draw it out.

The stories- should he snap- are certainly entertaining, coloured by Irene's genuine fondness for her client and her work; they are also far from safe for work.

To be very blunt, he had a particular interest in leather boots and erotic humiliation; it- and Irene- destroyed his marriage, though he always said that the end of his marriage was the beginning of his career. More free time, he'd said, no obligation to go home at any particular hour...

(She has always suspected him of putting a brave face on it- but he had certainly achieved a successful career no matter what).

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