The Prefecture de Police

[WanderingChild<3]

http://i946.photobucket.com/albums/ad302/wonderlandsqueen2010/PrefecturedePolicecopy.jpg
Prefecture de Police
The Prefecture de Police provides police protection for the city of Paris and its surrounding areas. Here, also, emergency services are housed, such as the fire department and ambulances. Administrative duties concerning identification, immigration, and drivers licenses are handled here as well. Note: classes on CPR, first aid, and self-protection are also offered nightly!
No spamming and follow proper RPG rules.
For the time being you may be in more than one thread at a time.
When this thread reaches 200 a moderator will start the new thread.
Have fun and enjoy!

[WanderingChild<3]

Rebecca Cross (http://www.fanpix.net/picture-gallery/672/249672-emily-deschanel-picture.htm)

Everything happens for a reason …

Don’t think so.

**** just happens.

Rebecca Cross did not believe certain things in life occurred, to open this oh-so mystical door of a new opportunity or something better. She did not believe in fate. She did not believe that two things or human beings could be brought together by some force, for some reason, that would change something. See how vague that was? It was all vague and frankly, all trash. The Detective did not do things because of such either. People nowadays waltz around, doing things, because they think it’s ‘fate’ or they were set out to do this for a specific reason, or hey, another door opens. No. Fate was just irony, people weren’t set out to do anything but make something out of their own selves, and a door did not open when one closes. That was just a saying of hope for failures.

Alright, so if she felt that strongly about the above things, then why was she holding this file, feeling these things?

Rebecca Cross was categorized under the best of the best when it came to her being a Detective, as well as a bestselling Author to add to that. Her Detective work was her first and foremost priority in life. It was what she lived and breathed. It paid off too- as she not only managed to make it to lead Detective in charge at Paris, but her accomplished work made its mark on New York City too. The success, she didn’t mind letting someone know, but it no means did it stop her from slacking off. Still, she worked her ass off a little too much in the office, at least spending the night twice a week in her office from the work that was self inflicted. Every new investigation that came through the building, she knew about and looked over herself. If she were to take that investigation, then that meant it was only the most difficult, and taxing. Rebecca Cross didn’t settle for cliché’ investigations or ones that she could crack in no time. She wanted the gruesome, the grueling, and the dirty.

What she held in her hands, could classify as none of the above. It had that lingering ‘maybe’ in the air that it could turn into something- and to others it could be quite the file to hold. With applying her standards, though, it wasn’t that much of anything. Still, what was running through Rebecca’s mind (which wasn’t an easy give to the outside eye), kept her eyes glued to this particular file.

NAME:
RACHEL RUTH DAY
AGE:
TWENTY ONE
BIRTHDAY:
FEBRUARY 14th, 1989

http://i56.tinypic.com/fco181.jpg

The Detective didn’t know why, but the photograph made her feel many things. Now, even the most grotesque of bodies couldn’t make Rebecca Cross even give a slight twitch, so the fact that the picture of the bubbly case even made her feel slightly anything said a lot. She wanted to cringe at the gleaming of the white teeth shining, seeming to bounce of the page and hitting her straight in the eye. She wanted to smile because she was smiling with the utmost happiness. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry because of the description below the beaming photograph.

Every law enforcement officer and their mother know that getting too attached to an investigation, is one of the most largest ‘no-no’s in crime solving. Getting too attached means emotional involvement. Emotional involvement means emotionally thinking. Emotionally thinking is irrational thinking. Irrational thinking usually turns into irrational action. Irrational action accompanied by a gun? Fewer bullets in the gun. A Rebecca Cross long ago would have made that her golden rule, just as the Department said to do so. A Rebecca Cross long ago believed in a lot of things. A lot of things, turned into a lot of ****.

Conclusion?

Rebecca Cross is not that Rebecca Cross ‘long ago’.

That fact, made her take this file, take this case, and take this responsibility for Rachel Day’s life.

Rachel Ruth Day was the little girl inside Rebecca Cross.

Now, as she plucked up Rachel’s file, and taking up one that titled ‘Rebecca Cross’ – the connection spoke for itself. So, no, it was not fate that was bringing them together. It was again, what was below their photographs that brought them together.

Getting emotionally attached was going to be an understatement. It was not a hardcore case, but Rebecca Cross would be dammed if someone besides her own hands touched that file. What was in that file, no one in the Department could even fathom; could even know what it truly was that they would be dealing with. She had lived it.

A knock on the door tore Rebecca Cross away from both files, instantly shoving them into the left side drawer of her desk. She straightened herself, regaining composure. Without even a thought, she reached at her torso, feeling her Glock-17 (http://www.enemyforces.net/firearms/glock17.htm). Satisfied, she leaned back into her chair- tapping her fingers against her desk, already feeling impatient, but mostly on edge. The thought of the files in her drawer burned a hole in her mind.

“Come in!”She barked out. “With, your hands where I can see them, please.”

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

Joseph Dubois (http://josephgordonlevitt.org/photos/displayimage.php?album=49&pos=76)

The leaves were golden. Back home, that would mean grape-picking time. It would mean cases and cases of sweet smelling wine arriving to Papa’s shop until the basement was full and thickly perfumed. But in Paris, golden leaves meant little more than Joseph needing to throw on a scarf before he left his apartment to go to his meeting. He had been in Paris since he was eighteen, but the last ten years had not fully shaken Bordeaux from his memory. Still, he blended well in with the Parisians as he strolled down the cobbled streets. His steps were unhurried, but purposeful. The sights and sounds of his adopted hometown swirled languidly by: children, swinging their lunchboxes as they skipped down the street; college students sipping coffee at café tables from behind gargantuan stacks of books; couples snuggling close together for additional warmth. Joseph paused beneath a streetlamp for a moment to process his thoughts.

His meeting was in fifteen minutes. He’d be down at the station in five. That gave him ten minutes to wrap his mind around the news he’d received over the weekend. A new partner. Joseph’s first real partner. His mentor had retired back in the spring and for a few months Joseph had been left to his own devices. He took on a case here and there, joined what teams he could, but the sense of impermanence was not the most comforting state of being. Thankfully impermanence was… well… impermanent. Today, Joseph was getting a partner. A lasting thing. Or, at least, as lasting as things were in his field. Threats of death, dismissal, and injury loomed over the heads of detectives every day. Though Joseph preferred to view things optimistically, he’d be a fool to pretend his was a cakewalk. But despite the risks, Joseph enjoyed what he did. Dissecting problems, helping people, getting into the fray and seeing all the action from beginning to end. There was nothing like it. Joseph was a man who looked forward to his job almost as much as he looked forward to going out in the evenings or to playing his guitar or to seeing Orianne dance at the Populaire. Almost. Regardless of the satisfying niche he’d carved out in the workplace, there were always those things in life he enjoyed as much or more.

But his hobbies and family were not what brought a sparkle to his brown eyes today. Joseph was overjoyed to be finally getting a new partner. And not just any partner. Joseph was not training a new intern; he was not dealing with a hard-boiled police veteran who called him “kid”. Through years of working himself to the bone, he had miraculously been assigned to work with Rebecca Cross. The woman couldn’t have been much older than Joseph, but was already a published author and renowned detective. Joseph wasn’t one to usually get star-struck, but it had been a stroke of extreme luck and a testament to his years of dedication to be assigned to such a prevalent figure in his department. He wanted to jump onto the light post, and swing himself around a la “Singing in the Rain”. He was making something of himself. He was going places. And he was going places with one of the best in Paris. That had to mean something.

Either Joseph was going somewhere in life or his boss was just waiting around for an excuse to see Joseph fall flat on his face. No, he wasn’t going to think like that. Joseph was not a failure. He was here, after all.

The light changed and Joseph crossed the street to the tall, baroque style building better known as “work”. A quick flash of his badge to the on-duty security guard and a dash up the steps later, he stood outside of Rebecca Cross’ office. He felt like he should have brought some sort of welcome gift, or at least, some coffee. But this was it. The big first impression. And it was too late to brew up a pot of coffee or to run out and get an office-warming present. Joseph sighed, balled his fist, and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Cross’ harsh, American bark made Joseph blink. Maybe it would have been a good idea to bring coffee, after all. The woman on the other side of the door sounded like she could use some. Or maybe a nice, red wine. Something to loosen her up. “With, your hands where I can see them, please.”

At least she said “please”. Still, Joseph pulled a face from the other side of the door. If he’d made it past security check, he clearly belonged in the Prefecture de Police. He pushed open the door, raised his hands in something like surrender and stepped in the room.

“Joseph Dubois, Investigations Department,” he introduced, hands still raised. “Rebecca Cross, I presume?”

The woman in front of him was pretty, but she was all hard lines and pale color. Ice queen. Her bared arms were toned and around her mouth, Joseph could see lines of seriousness. This was Rebecca Cross. Likely on the defense. After all, she was a woman in a male dominated field and an American trying to prove her salt in France. Still, there was no need for hostility. Evidently, no one had given her the memo on how greetings were done in France. Though usually pegged as “snobs”, the French at least knew how to smile at the people they’d be working with for the next several months. In fact, an almost involuntary smile crinkled on Joseph’s face. After all, not ten minutes ago, working with Rebecca Cross had been a dream come true. And Joseph wasn’t even going to let Madame Cross herself ruin that for him.

[WanderingChild<3]

Rebecca Cross

She didn't believe in the high-pitched fake tone of voice, the cheesy smile, or the friendly greeting. Rebecca Cross viewed those as all being fake when it came to people knocking on her door during her work time, or really, any time. She would be the first to tell someone that she was not, in fact, the friendliest person, but she didn't see a reason to be. If she liked you, she liked you. If she didn't, she didn't. Why did she have to express it every which way? Could people tell which was which with her? Absolutely not. The Detective knew this about her too. For instance, her barking the entrance of whomever was knocking on her door, with their hands raised- not the typical greeting. After being nearly killed, people tend to get a little more secure, so that explained that. Just because they were apart of the Department didn't mean squat. They still had a gun. A gun killed. Also, Rebecca was in the mindset for her new investigation, which was a little more than just important. She wasn't about to set aside the file merrily, and divert all her attentions to someone who didn't have an appointment/meeting. In conclusion- this was Rebecca Cross impatiently watching as the door opened.

Rebecca's eyebrows raised at the sight of a young gentleman. Emphasis on young. She studied him as he entered with raised arms, having a good look, and not attempting to hide it either. The Detective studied everyone in this way, but she looked a little more intense now. It was rare to find someone so... young in the face at the Department. He looked youthful and slightly on the chipper side. Cute, and on the borderline of handsome- if that were even legal to say.

“Joseph Dubois, Investigations Department."

Investigations Department?! She leaned into her desk now, looking perplexed. It was out of the ordinary to see someone like him be with the Investigations Department. Usually, they are all gruff, mangled looking men. She quirked her brow, leaning back into her chair, not enthused enough to give a **** who he was just yet. The shock of his youth wore off, and she continued on tapping her fingers along her desk- her eyes glancing at the drawer a couple times.

“Rebecca Cross, I presume?”

Small talk. There really should be protocol for this type of thing. Walk in, state name, state business. She didn't have time for introduction. Plus, the question was a little pathetic.

"Damn, was it the name slate that gave it away?" Rebecca asked in a sarcastic tone with a serious face, looking over at the name slate that sat at the front of her desk. It could have been that, or the fact that her name was on a dozen of books sold in nearly every bookstore, or just that her name was one of the largest of the Department. See, Rebecca Cross would have been more than happy to add that- but that was something she would have done. That was something that she had learned was being conceited/overly confident. They were facts, but annoying ones. Now, she couldn 't give a rats ass at what she accomplished or who knew about it.

She cleared her throat, beginning to rock in her chair. "Alright, Joseph Dubois with the Investigations Department," Rebecca began, clicking her pen in the air. "Since now I have your name, and you presumed correctly on mine, why don't you fill me in on why you're standing in my office."

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

Joseph Dubois

Joseph shrugged his shoulders and lowered his hands slowly.

"Damn, was it the name slate that gave it away?" Cross snapped.

Instantly, Joseph wanted to fold his arms like a petulant child. Evidently, that was how things were done around here. If Cross wanted to be… well… cross with him, Joseph could play along.

Grow up, Dubois. Professionals don’t act like that.

He smiled and stole a glance at the name slate. It looked like every other one in the building, except with the name “Rebecca Cross” emblazoned on it. That may have been a give-away, but there was always the slight possibility the woman before him wasn’t Rebecca Cross. Joseph didn’t know everyone in the police force, after all. In a city the size of Paris, that was damn near impossible. The creaking of Cross’ office chair brought Joseph’s eyes back to her.

"Alright, Joseph Dubois with the Investigations Department," Cross said, clicking her pen in a way that made Joseph want to snatch it from her. He didn’t need her to emphasize just how important she was—or thought herself to be. He got the message loud and clear: to Rebecca Cross, he was just another dumb rookie. "Since now I have your name, and you presumed correctly on mine, why don't you fill me in on why you're standing in my office."

“I thought I’d come over and introduce myself…” he said, his voice still bright, but now paired with a twinge of annoyed sarcasm. “Partner.”

[WanderingChild<3]

Rebecca Cross

“I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.”

What were they going to do next, sing Kumbayah? Rebecca Cross really did not care for random introductions. There was always some motive; everyone had a motive for actions. Everyone was guilty before proven innocent. Did he want a good word in for himself? Well, if that was the case, he should have at least brought chocolates. Not that it would do any good for his case. It just sounded appetizing due to menstrual relations.

“Partner.”

Rebecca Cross was not one for dramatics, but she literally almost fell out of her chair. Her pen fell from her fingers, smacking a hard hand on the desk to keep her balance. Partner? No, absolutely not. This was not possible. The Detective told the Department she was going to be working alone for awhile; in fact she had demanded it more than requested. This had to be some sort of prank. Yes, that was it. The Chief just sent some paperboy, who was nicely dressed from the streets, into her office to give her some ‘welcome back’ playful nudge. The drawn out conclusion in her mind sounded pathetic, but pathetic could happen, right?

Wrong.

Rebecca Cross knew how to read situations and people. It was one of the aspects that made her unbelievably good at what she did. So, looking at Joseph Dubois- studying him, taking in his features, his serious unmoving gaze, and not even a light hint at this being a joke- she knew it was all true.

“You gotta be ****tin me.” She stated both hands planted on the desk, leaning in toward him.

The only partner the Detective had ever had was Calvin Booth. It was a complicated partnership that went beyond where crime investigation partners should ever go. Not in the physical sense, but the mental sense that almost seemed physical at one point. Like every other thing in her life, it got ****ed up, and he left. Men leaving Rebecca seemed like such a familiar pattern. It was why Rebecca requested she have no partner. She was good enough to work alone, and she was too sensitive to having one. Partner no longer carried the definition that it should have for Detectives. She didn’t believe in it anymore. Why should she? Partnership faked people out. It tricked people into thinking that someone was there for them; someone cared for them more than they cared for themselves. It gave off this false emotion of not feeling alone, and feeling protected. It was all complete bull****.

Rebecca Cross felt the need to lash out right at that very moment. She would be doing it to the wrong person, though. The chipper guy in front of her desk probably didn’t deserve Rebecca’s ferocious side, unlike whoever was in charge of all of this.

“There has been a misunderstanding.” She stated as calmly as she could, leaning back into her chair, and rummaging through her desk drawer to find the number for the Chief’s Office. “See, I work alone- so there is no way…” Rebecca slammed the notebook with the numbers onto her desk. “No way could this be possible.”

It was very possible and she was very aware at this point, as she began rummaging through the book nervously. Her cheeks were burning, and she could feel all these emotions creep over her. The Detective slapped her hand on the notebook, pursing her lips angrily. She looked up at Joseph, her eyes burning holes at him. The Department knew not to give her a partner. She told them herself. Why the hell would they assign someone to her? Was there literally no respect around here? Rebecca swallowed hard. It was pointless to call. It was pointless to get out of this. She had declined to offer of the Chief job a long time ago, and now she belonged in the hands of someone else. They usually never did, but apparently they decided to take the upper hand in this one.

"Partner.." She murmured, staring at him, wincing at the word, at the sight, at this new partnership.

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

OOC: Trying to kick-start Joseph while New York radio stations and iTunes stations play nothing but RS-theme music. Seriously. Joseph needs music. That way, I can write him like *snap* whenever I stick my headphones in. BIC:

Joseph Dubois

Joseph’s smile did not waver when Cross dropped her pen and slammed into her desk. His expression did not break into a just-kidding-grin. Finally. The message was getting through. Moreover, Rebecca Cross could be fazed. Thank God, too, because Joseph was beginning to worry he’d been assigned an android for a partner or something. Not that he would, you know, verbalize that thought. Ever.

“You gotta be ****tin’ me.”

Cross leaned across her desk, planting her palms firmly there with a “SMACK”. Joseph shook his head with lifted brows. No, he wasn’t “****tin’” her. In fact, he was a little surprised at the oh-so-delicate way his partner chose to express herself. Such a wonderful first impression…

“There has been a misunderstanding.”

Joseph shook his head again. Obviously, there was a misunderstanding. Because Joseph really was her new partner, whether Cross liked it or not. He watched her rummage manically for something and Joseph found himself hoping that she hadn’t just jumped off the deep end and was searching for a spare gun.

“See, I work alone- so there is no way…” Cross emphatically slammed a notebook onto her desk. “No way could this be possible.”

Joseph shrugged and looked ceiling-ward as Cross thumbed through the book. He wondered just exactly what she hoped to accomplish with that Magic Book of Answers in front of her. Evidently, the woman had some trust issue or another if she didn’t believe Joseph. After all, he had no motives to lie to her and now, with this warm welcome, he couldn’t imagine why anyone sane would volunteer for the position he now found himself in. He looked down to see Cross’ ice eyes glowering his way. It was a wonder they didn’t melt out of her sockets. Such passionate, heated anger. Such a waste. If you were going to be that passionate about something, why waste your passion on hate?

Still, Joseph didn’t look away. What else was he supposed to do? Get all hot-under-the-collar because his new partner wasn’t coping well with change? That would have made things more complex than they already were. Joseph didn’t need complex today. He just needed a simple acknowledgement of ‘Okay, yes. We’re partners. Let’s move on with our lives, now.”

"Partner..."

That was all Joseph needed to hear. He latched onto the word.

“Yes, partner. You and me, partners,” he said, ruffling his hair with a slightly agitated hand. “Glad you’re starting to accept it.” His smile faded slowly. “So, let’s get down to business now that that’s settled…”

[Ubaldo Piangi]

Frederick Worthington

Frederick was always a man who maintained a fastidious outward appearance: this included everything from his wardrobe (from suits to hats to capes, and all the accoutrements in between), to how he kept his hair clean and styled, his face fresh and handsome, his teeth whitened and his nails manicured. Of course, if one were to ask him what he liked best about himself, the famous opera tenor might tell them his greatest feature(s) happened to be his heroically large muscles. He had built himself up during his training period at the Royal Opera House in London, and as the Englishman's voice further matured and gained strength and power, the director and his vocal coach both advised him that he would need to strengthen his body physically if there was to be enough stamina to project the Heldentenor voice that could overpower a full classical orchestra. Thus Frederick worked hard lifting weights, doing cardio, and other physical exercises such as pull-ups, push-ups, and sit-ups. Before the end of his first year with the Royal Opera, the once-scrawny son of an English lord had the appearance of an Adonis carved from marble, and he carefully maintained his fit, muscular body even after moving to Paris and joining a new opera company.

However, he was a bit lacking in the self-defense department. Certainly he had been trained in the graceful art of fencing during his years at an expensive, very exclusive boys boarding school, and was a half-decent swordsman. But when it came to hand-to-hand combat...well, he was more of an awkward oaf than a skilled fighter. So when he happened to notice an advertisement in Le Monde advertising classes in CPR, first aid, and self-defense, he thought he would go to Le Prefecture de Police, where these classes were held nightly. I hope that, whoever is teaching this class, does not think me a fool for coming, the raven-haired young gentleman thought to himself during the trip via his private limousine. He was wearing a complete ensemble of designer athletic clothing and a custom pair of Nike sneakers designed by him (with a price tag of approximately 4000 EU), yet he did not forget a touch of his usual sophistication with a solid-black fedora sporting a matching silk hatband and an Inverness cape over his clothes. Beside him, on the seat, was a drawstring pack containing two clean towels and a bottle of Hildon water. As soon as the limousine stopped in front of the building, Antoine got out of the driver's seat and opened the door for his employer. "Vous viendra à me recueillir lorsque cette classe est terminée, s'il-vous plait? Je vais vous anneau lorsqu'il se trouve au-dessus," stated Frederick as he climbed out of the long, sleek black car with his initial emblazoned on the back doors. "Mais oui, Maître Worthington. Comme vous le souhaitez." The French chauffeur, dressed quite professionally (as always) in full uniform with a distinctly classic French touch added by a fashionable cape, bowed to his employer; it was returned by an inclination of the tenor's head and shoulders, then the chauffeur returned to his seat behind the wheel and drove away as the English opera star strode into Le Prefecture de Police.

Once inside, Frederick removed his fedora and approached the main desk to ask where the self-defense class was being held. After the desk sergeant, a woman in uniform, with blonde hair pulled back in a bun, gave him directions to the exercise room, the young man made his way down the corridor and, after a couple of turns, finally found the room. He stepped in through the open doorway, his grey eyes falling on a few other people who were there to learn self-defense; the young gentleman found a spot out of the way, near the wall, where he could put down his drawstring pack and fedora before unbuttoning his Victorian-style black Inverness cape, shrugging it off, and sweeping it with dramatic flair around to the front of his body before draping it over a piece of nearby equipment. He was unsure of whether or not to take off his jacket (the entire athletic ensemble was designed by the house of Giorgio Armani), so for the time being he at least undid the zipper so it was open in front. If he got too warm later on, he could always remove it so that his arms would be free to breathe; it was especially good that he wore a tank top underneath the jacket so he could have more freedom of movement. Finally, Frederick prepared for the beginning of the class by standing with the other participants, though behind a shorter woman so that she could easily watch the instructor.

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

Joseph Dubois

“No, you have to be joking.”

Joseph had a case already. One that he was on day in and day out. He was practically living in his car outside Rachel Day’s Le Marais apartment. He did not have the time or inclination to teach a self-defense class on his supposed day off. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to curl up with a book for the first time in months. Go to the park before the chill set in for the autumn. Grab coffee with Orianne. Something—anything—besides clock into work.

Even if it was only for a two hour course.

“I already talked to the Chief about it. He thinks it’s only right. Everyone has to pay their dues, Dubois,” Officer Giroux said, clapping Joseph heartily on the back. “Besides, some of us have wives and kids to get home to for the night. You’re a real friend, covering for me.”

Asshole, Joseph thought with uncharacteristic malice as he watched Giroux walk out of the office. Between Rebecca’s brand of sarcasm and the threatening glares he got daily from Rachel’s roommate, Joseph was tired. Tired of being treated like some dumb kid. Some rookie. He hadn’t screwed up yet, but it seemed that everyone around him expected him to. Or was trying to make him snap by goading him on. Joseph didn’t want a wife and kids any time soon, but one day…

And when he was a family man, Joseph would be sure to remember how he felt today when there was a new rookie to take his place.

It was on that note that Joseph walked into the room. The Frenchman looked around the sparsely filled room. The crowd was predominantly female—something Joseph didn’t mind in the least—but as he looked out at the sea of faces of co-eds and soccer moms, a random, male face stood out. One, because the guy was head-and-shoulders taller than the women around him. But, two, because the guy… well… He stood out.

In a room full of women in baggy sweats and skin-tight yoga-pants, this guy was dressed in a very match-y tracksuit or something. It looked new.

It looked expensive.

Probably more expensive than any of the girls’ outfits.

Weird…

“Good evening , class,” Joseph said, forcing a smile as he made his way to the front of the room. “My name is Officer Dubois and I will be your self-defense instructor for the next two hours. I want you all to pair off before we begin. Groups of two only.”

But as Joseph scanned the room, counting just how many pupils he had, it dawned on him that eleven was not an even number.

Oops…

[Ubaldo Piangi]

Frederick Worthington

After Frederick had stepped into the room where the self-defense class would be held and taken off his hat and Inverness cape, he noticed that the room was otherwise occupied by women. Several of them gave him flirty glances and smiles, despite one or two of them having a glittering diamond ring and/or a wedding band on their left ring fingers. The young Englishman graced them with a slight smile before they all lined up as the evening's class instructor entered the room and gave his introduction. “Good evening, class,” said the other man, his French accent obvious when he spoke; however, it was not the sort that Frederick heard when listening to native Parisians speaking to one another. This accent had a different quality, not quite so uppity and a bit less refined. It sounded like the French that was spoken in the rolling countryside outside the bright lights of the city. “My name is Officer Dubois and I will be your self-defense instructor for the next two hours. I want you all to pair off before we begin. Groups of two only.” As the police officer counted off the participants in the class, the opera tenor looked about as well and mentally counted for himself. Nine, ten, eleven...just eleven? Well, I should think the ladies should be in pairs together, but...who shall be my partner? It was then that he looked back at Officer Dubois.

Oh...I suppose I am meant to work with him tonight. So, after a moment of slight hesitation, Frederick approached the police officer and introduced himself. "Good evening, Officier Dubois. I am Frederick Worthington. Am I correct in assuming that we are to be partners for this evening's class?" he queried, his posh accent as English as one could get when they were a native of that country and born into the upper echelons of society. However, when he spoke the officer's title and surname, his accent switched to one that was as practiced and cultured as any lifetime citizen of Paris. "I hope that you will find me a willing student, sir. I am ready when you are." The singer's grey eyes locked with those of the French police officer, prepared to learn whatever he was going to teach the class that night.

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

Joseph Dubois

Memo to self: count the participants ahead of schedule.

To be fair, Joseph hadn’t gotten any thing ahead of schedule. The only think he’d gotten was extra hours tacked onto his schedule.

That, and a small bonus.

Still, it was little compensation for looking a fool in front of a room of strangers. Unless…

Unless he made one of them his sparring partner and the example. Brilliance. It was that kind of quick-thinking Joseph wished Rebecca would catch him doing. He scanned the room and his eyes locked with those of a pretty brunette. The girl smiled at him in an almost come-hither way and Joseph began walking towards his newfound “lovely assistant”. And maybe, if things went well, after class teacher and student could grab some drinks together or something.

Maybe tonight will be a little more fruitful than—

"Good evening, Officier Dubois.”

Damn!

Joseph turned to face the man and forced one of his bright smiles. It was Sir Fashionista and the man spoke in a clear, British-accented tenor. Joseph’s jaw hurt a little as he smiled. His lips parted and the cursory ‘good evening’ formed on his lips for an instant.


“I am Frederick Worthington. Am I correct in assuming that we are to be partners for this evening's class?"

Joseph hazarded a glance at Lovely Brunette Assistant and saw that she was now talking with another girl, giggling and now entirely oblivious to Joseph. The Frenchman’s shoulders sagged for a nanosecond, but he regained composure and turned to face Worthington again. Their eyes met and—Joseph realized—that the Brit’s assumption was right. Or at least, it was as of now, since everybody else was paired off.

"I hope that you will find me a willing student, sir. I am ready when you are."

“Of course,” Joseph said, his voice not as bright as usual, but still civil and professional. “A pleasure, Monsieur Worthington.”

Joseph beckoned for the Englishman to follow him and made his way back to the front of the classroom. He faced his oh-so-eager pupils—including Lovely Brunette Non-Assistant—and smiled.

“I see you all have found your partners,” he said. “Good. However, one thing I will have you remember is that in a real fight, you do not pick your opponent.”

Isn’t that the truth?

“So you have to be prepared for anything. Man, woman… Old, young… Whatever.”

Good job. Sounding paranoid already.

“As you can see, Monsieur Worthington has kindly volunteered to be my assistant for tonight’s lesson. Tonight, with Monsieur Worthington’s help, I will show you the very basics of unarmed self-defense… So, if you have any mace or concealed weapons… Well, they should have taken those at the front desk.” Joseph smiled a little at the joke, “Seriously, though. What I am teaching you tonight are some very basic self-defense skills that could save your life if you find yourself without a weapon. We will be covering hand-techniques—punching and hand strikes—for the first hour and leg techniques—which are basically kicks and knee strikes—for the second. Are there any questions so far about the agenda?”

[Ubaldo Piangi]

Frederick Worthington

Frederick sensed the other man was surprised, and rather tense, at being approached by him; the officer looked off in another direction, his eyes focusing on a young brunette woman who was chatting it up with another student, making the gentleman think that he had best find another partner. After his introduction, Officer Dubois forced a smile onto his face as he replied, "Of course. A pleasure, Monsieur Worthington."

Yes, a pleasure meeting you as well, Officier. I can see we are going to get along smashingly this evening... It seemed to be too late to change partners, for Joseph beckoned the tall, handsome singer to the front of the room before giving an introduction to the evening's class. Oh, dear me... “I see you all have found your partners,” the Frenchman said to the ladies who stood facing him and Frederick. His eyes were still on the pretty brunette as he smiled and continued, saying, “Good. However, one thing I will have you remember is that in a real fight, you do not pick your opponent.” Indeed, this is true. And it seems that I have already learned my first lesson about hand-to-hand combat, thought the English tenor, lifting one dark eyebrow a bit as he turned his eyes towards the ceiling very briefly before facing the women again.

“So you have to be prepared for anything. Man, woman… Old, young… Whatever.” Frederick was prepared to protest but bit down on his tongue so he would not get himself into trouble by making a scene, especially since Joseph now formally introduced the young man as his "assistant" for the class. “As you can see, Monsieur Worthington has kindly volunteered to be my assistant for tonight’s lesson. Tonight, with Monsieur Worthington’s help, I will show you the very basics of unarmed self-defense. So, if you have any mace or concealed weapons…well, they should have taken those at the front desk.” The handsome opera star fought back the urge to huff and roll his eyes at Officer Dubois's attempt at light humor. How very droll, Officier. You should take your act on the road. “Seriously, though. What I am teaching you tonight are some very basic self-defense skills that could save your life if you find yourself without a weapon. We will be covering hand-techniques—punching and hand strikes—for the first hour and leg techniques—which are basically kicks and knee strikes—for the second. Are there any questions so far about the agenda?” The brunette whom the French policeman had been eyeing raised her hand.

"I have a question, Oficier, but it doesn't have to do with the 'agenda' for tonight's class," she stated. Her inquiry was a doozy, to say the least. "Would you be available afterwards for drinks or something?" Frederick wanted to bury his face in his hands and shake his head at the kind of question the young woman had presented to her teacher. This is going to be a long night...

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

Joseph Dubois

Joseph was not a man who let disappointment keep him down. In fact, by the time he hit the stride of his introduction, Joseph was over his missed opportunity with Lovely Brunette. He had a class to teach and a sparring partner with whom he could demonstrate. Joseph, who had spent the week in his cramped patrol car outside of the Day-Ortiz household, could not really ask for anything more. At least no one was shooting him vitriolic commentary like Rebecca did. At least no one wanted him dead the way Ortiz had. At least no one was fed up with him like Rachel was. So what if Joseph didn’t walk away from the class with a date? He was no worse off than before. And he had survived the past week. He’d probably survive the next one, too, regardless of Lovely Brunette.

And then Lovely Brunette raised her hand.

Joseph met her gaze; the woman’s dark eyes sparked. Joseph nodded, prompting her to continue.

"I have a question, Officier, but it doesn't have to do with the 'agenda' for tonight's class."

“That’s all right. I am here to answer questions.”

"Would you be available afterwards for drinks or something?"

SCORE!

Joseph’s smile widened. He began to nod, but his eyes flicked out to the crowd of people. His smile faded.

“Talk to me after class if you’re still wondering about that one, mademoiselle,” he said, professionally as he could. Still, there was a soft lilt to his voice, as if to tell the girl: that’s most definitely not a ‘no’. Joseph clapped his hands and rubbed them together, looking around the room. “So… If that’s the only question, we’re going to begin the lesson. First up… Punching. I don’t want you punching your partners’ faces in or anything… We really don’t want to create more work for our Emergency Medical Service friends down the hall. More than that, punching actually can do a lot of damage to your hand. If you don’t have a background in martial arts or boxing, punching really won’t work for you like it does in the movies. I want everyone to get enough space between themselves and the people around them… Now, stretch out your arm—the one you write with—and make a fist.” Joseph extended his fist to show. “Feel how the muscles tighten. Your biceps and triceps work opposite each other, but since they’re both tightening… If you punch someone, you’re probably just going to hurt yourself. Plus, your fist could break. Your hand bones are small and easily fractured. …You can put your arms down now.”

[Ubaldo Piangi]

Frederick Worthington

Frederick was feeling irked by the young brunette's rather flirtatious question, directed towards Officer Dubois; it was not so much that he was jealous--after all, he could not be so, since he was very happily engaged to Ember Slight and thought of no one else that way except for her--as he was annoyed that the woman was attempting to make this into a social hour. For heaven's sake, he thought, they were there to learn unarmed self-defense techniques, not chat it up over a beer! Thankfully, before the Frenchman got too lost in his reverie, he remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing at the moment. “Talk to me after class if you’re still wondering about that one, mademoiselle,” he told the brunette, though with that sort of tone that, Frederick inferred, could only mean that he still was not turning down the offer.

Good heavens, what next? The class's self-defense teacher then seemed to finally focus on the task at hand and get down to business. “So…if that’s the only question, we’re going to begin the lesson. First up…punching. I don’t want you punching your partners’ faces in or anything…we really don’t want to create more work for our Emergency Medical Service friends down the hall. More than that, punching actually can do a lot of damage to your hand. If you don’t have a background in martial arts or boxing, punching really won’t work for you like it does in the movies. I want everyone to get enough space between themselves and the people around them…Now, stretch out your arm—the one you write with—and make a fist.” Officer Dubois demonstrated, and the opera singer followed his lead by extending his right arm, hand tightly clenched in a fist. He could feel the large forearm muscles tighten beneath the sleeve of his track jacket as he did this. Everyone else did the same, some making their fists look better than others. “Feel how the muscles tighten. Your biceps and triceps work opposite each other, but since they’re both tightening…if you punch someone, you’re probably just going to hurt yourself. Plus, your fist could break. Your hand bones are small and easily fractured. You can put your arms down now.” All of the police officer's students dropped their arms, then waited for his next instructions. I hope Oficier Dubois is going to make this class interesting... thought the English tenor as he listened and observed what Joseph was going to do next.

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

OOC: Fender Bender a la Lucian and Bebe. BIC:

Lucian Michaud (http://www.jasonisaacsphotoalbumsonline.com/TV/AWAKE/Trailercaps/Snap161.jpg)

On the list of things Lucian Michaud did not need, it was an increase in his insurance rates. His life was, at present, a wreck. He was dating the girl of his dreams; but she was engaged to his only son. His divorce was finalized; but half of his belongings had been “lost” in the mail and may as well have been rerouted to Albania. His son was in town; but he was flighty and tightlipped. He was helping to pay for a wedding he did not support; his home was a revolving door for a multitude of friends and family who would come and go as they pleased, sometimes without always giving a proper warning. He ran his own company—a whole chunk of the wine industry, really—and it had its own financial woes that had to be remedied. He also spent far too much time dealing with the Paris Opera house and how it appropriated his donations. It was nothing Lucian couldn’t handle, but did he really need his bumper crushed in by some reckless driver? His BMW was—at risk of sounding cliché—one of his most treasured possessions. Lucian was no more materialistic than the next man, but a little bit of his soul gave a strangled yelp when the two cars rocked together at the stop. He could feel his insurance—and blood pressure—go up. He was glad to be unharmed, hoped the other driver was both insured and uninjured, but quickly found himself less absorbed by the minute immediate details and looking at the bigger picture. Had he gotten Natalie’s name off of the insurance, or would his irate ex-wife be giving him a call and a lecture about this tonight? What would Ashton do if she found out Lucian had been in a fender bender? Would Damien tack the accident onto his list of “Behaviors that Indicate a Midlife Crisis” list that he was not-so-discreetly compiling?

In truth, an accident was a long time coming. Lucian could only be pulled together for so long before things started to fall apart. He groaned and flicked the hazard lights on, parking the car and pulling out his camera phone to snap photos of the other person’s car, in case they sped off in a hurry; all the while praying that he could keep his temper in check…

[WanderingChild<3]

http://www.google.com/m/search?q=tina+fey&pbx=1&aq=f&oq=&aqi=p1-k0d0t0&fkt=1509&fsdt=4149&cqt=&rst=&htf=&his=&maction=&site=images&gl=us&source=mog&csll=&action=&ltoken=8f00a7b4#i=151






Bebe Lothair


What was she, a nervous fifteen year old attempting to get their learners permit? Bebe Lothair slammed her palm against the wheel of her lamborghini, her eyes staring down the bumber of the, other expensive vehicle in this situation, wondering if she squinted long enough that it would go away. But, Bebe would only put wrinkles she did not need between her eyes, and it was no use living in this perfect world where fender benders dissapeared with a pleading gaze, she knew how to actually drive, and the driver's door to the car in front of her didn't whip open. Bebe Lofair smacked her lips, heaving a sigh. This was, really, top notch. Her first few days in Paris, and already she was wreaking havoc. So she had driven a little too close to the car? Bebe Lofair was use to bumper on bumper in New York City. Well, it was time to warmly welcome herself to Paris. What better way than this?

Swallowing hard, Bebe opened the door to her car, watching as a gentleman stepped out. Attractive, sophisticated, not looking all too thrilled gentleman. No doubt from the sight of his car, wealthy. But, that just probably meant this would be a big deal. Bebe Lofair sighed, kicking out a heel, and stepping out of her car too. She wasn't a fool who would drive off, or not take responsibility for her actions. Well, she would, pay him off whatever he wanted for him not to report this, but that wasn't as demeaning as just driving off.

Stepping to the front of her car, Bebe Lofair looked at the man first, biting at the side of her mouth, and clasping her hands together. "I am so sorry, Monsieur." Bebe told him sincerely, not really knowing how to handle a situation like this. The French director itched her head, dipping her hips to the side, and spinning on her heel to look at the... damage.

"Merde." Bebe spat, using her favorite expression, and in her skirt, bending to her knees to look at his car. Examining it, she slapped a hand to her forehead, and murmured. "Not even a couple days and I'm already screwing it up."

Looking to him worriedly, she stuck out a palm out hand, "Are you hurt?!"

[Mrs Nadir Khan]

Lucian Michaud

One quick snap of his camera phone and Lucian had half of his legal battle won already. It would be an absolute migraine to sort through the paperwork already, but at least he had evidence. Judging by the car—a Lamborghini, of all things?!—Lucian could almost safely say the other driver had insurance. You didn’t barrel through the streets in a luxury car without it. He knew. His insurance would probably cover the damages, but as it wasn’t his fault, Lucian hoped it didn’t come to that. He snapped one more photograph, this time of his own car, to assess the damage. He thanked God his quarter panels hadn’t collapsed and it was only the bumper that seemed to be affected. The click of high-heels against cobblestone pulled Lucian’s attention away from the material damage long enough to see a woman—a bit younger than he and pretty in that librarian-chic sort of way—spring from the driver’s side. She wrung her hands together and began chewing away at her lip.

"I am so sorry, Monsieur," she said in tinged English before looking at the damage she’d done.

She looked rather like Damien when he’d run Bill’s motorcycle into Natalie’s rosebushes. Almost as if the obstacles—in this case, Lucian’s car—had appeared from thin air. Lucian’s eyes rolled skyward. Wasn’t this the part where they exchanged contact information and said, “I’ll see you in court” or do something else more useful than bewildered head-scratching? He hadn’t had a car accident in years, but he was fairly certain something a little more productive was supposed to happen than what he and the stranger were doing now.

"Merde," the woman swore.

Lucian, neither faint-of-heart nor particularly uncouth looked at her with mild amusement and shock. Looks may have been deceiving but that filthy word off of a professional-looking woman’s lips was unexpected, even given the situation. It was a car; the damage was relatively minor. No one was hurt; no ambulance need be called. No reason to handle this like teenagers… The woman bent at the knees and examined Lucian’s bumper. She looked particularly distraught, smacking a hand to her forehead.

"Not even a couple days and I'm already screwing it up," she said, more to herself than for Lucian’s benefit.

Although, worry began to crawl into the pit of his stomach again. If that meant she’d only had her car for a few days, she might not be insured. And Lucian could not afford to be in a wreck with an uninsured Lamborghini driver. He could, hypothetically, but it didn’t fit neatly into his budget. Between business expenses, mortgage payments, alimony payments, and supporting his household and family, Lucian did not need this.

"Are you hurt?!" the woman practically yelped, looking at Lucian with an outstretched hand.

He forced a thin-lipped smile to his face and shook his head. He supposed he ought to feel bad, worrying about the inconvenience done to him when there could have been real carnage in all this. But it was a fender bender. Injury was unlikely—if not impossible—and judging by the way the other driver had run to check the automobile damage instead of checking herself for injury, she was likely unharmed. They were a pair of upper-class, middle-agers who now had to take a little chunk out of their lives to deal with the red-tape of a car accident.

“Not that I’m aware of.” He’d know tomorrow if he had whiplash. “And you?”

A courtesy question, if Lucian had ever asked one. He felt bad that he didn’t feel bad, but it wasn’t his fault. If it had been, Lucian supposed he’d be the hand-wringing, nervous wreck checking the damage and apologizing and swearing up a storm.

No, he thought, studying the stranger silently. You probably wouldn’t swear. And you know better than to apologize. That’s accepting the blame and the insurance increase.