2010-06-18: Barnes Opening

Starring:

Vasha_V5icon.pngLaurie2_V5icon.png

Date: June 18th, 2010

Summary:

Since 1.f3 is a poor move, it is not played often. Nonetheless, it is probably not the rarest opening move. Some players play this, somewhat arrogantly, as a way of saying: "I can play anything against you".


"Barnes Opening"

Docks

One of the best times of day is when the sun is almost setting over the horizon and the sky over the water is almost as dark as pitch. The harbor lights cast a faint white glow on the dock and part of the boat. The part that is unlight is where Vasha sits, enjoying a glass of chilled white wine as she stares at the waning bit of sunlight.

The small cafe table where she sits is secured to the deck by bolts to keep it from sliding, what isn't bolted is the glass itself. It slips from side to side as the yacht is rocked by the waves, on one of its travels toward the side it is plucked up and a sip taken.

She is dressed in her usual fair of a light sundress, this time in a bright shade of orange that matches the dying sun almost perfectly. The white flowers on it stand out so brightly that she is quite visible from the head of the dock.

To this beacon of womanly orange and white plods the only footsteps the dock has seen for a small while now. It's casually clear of visitors, despite the envious view, yet this lone intruder has managed to approach in such a manner that he isn't obvious until closer to her. Those large boots start to make more noise now for whatever reason. Quite a feat, too, hiding a man of his height and build — Roscoe's brown jacket emphasizes strong shoulders, while his wildly striped dress shirt is a sight of its own.

A lighter is being played with by one hand as he steps into Vasha's periphery, eyes squinting into what's left of the sun before finding her. He unabashedly makes a full observation of her person — but not before making an even more thorough one of her location. It's all done in a moment, casual; he's practiced in sizing up a room. Even when it's a yacht.

"Nice, uh," the lighter is gestured forward when he indicates the space, "little set-up you got here." Said by a man much more accustomed to using that opener as a threat and, now playing at civil, has found that to be the first thing in his repertoire anyway.

Reluctantly, Vasha tears her eyes away from the sunset and she turns her head to look upon the intruder to her solitude. Her hazel orbs wander about his person for a minute or so before she finally deigns to answer the man. "I thank you," she calls out in a low tone, her accent muted as best she can for the stranger. It is still fairly obvious that English is not her first language.

She turns her head to look back at the last glimpse of the sun before it disappears completely, leaving only a bit of pink and purple sky in its wake. Only then does she address the man again, this time in a little bolder of a voice. "Are you looking for someone or are you simply enjoying the view?" A friendly enough question, perhaps an offer of aid.

Roscoe doesn't seem to react much either way to her long wait between talking. Rather, he uses the space of time when she glances away for that last touch of sunset to invite himself onto the boat in one long stride. He wavers a bit on getting onto the yacht's gently moving surface, but it seems almost for show in its exaggeration — the way he's also loitering about as though they're now best of friends. There's a open gesture to the yacht once he's already firmly on it, "You don't mind if I…" Though the phrasing may not be, the question is clearly rhetorical. It's not long before: "Let's not be fuckin' coy — excuse me — about this," oddly pleasantly said, all told, as he meanders a bit more on the deck.

The lighter is flicked to the side, open and shut. click, snap. A grin appears. "You've met my boss. Real class act. Not like me," the free hand dips to his pocket, shuffling out a single cigarette from a case, "Can't take me out anywhere," he brings the cigarette to his lips, head tilted forward slightly to catch flame to tip, "So, shame and all you can't meet with him again, but," he snaps the lighter, brings the cigarette away with two fingers, "— let's be honest — he's got better things to do. I'm gonna go ahead and smoke." Which is, apparently, his version of asking for permission.

"Please, do come aboard… I so enjoy unexpected visitors." Vasha's monotonous voice doesn't hide the sarcasm dripping behind the words. Of course it can't be anything but sarcastic, considering he's already on the boat. The first wisp of smoke reaches her nostrils and they flare for the brief moment it takes to inhale the scent and then the air is expelled quickly, as though to purge her system of the substance.

Ever so slowly, she stretches her legs out in front of her and works at the heel of one of her shoes with the toe of the other until it slides off. The cork wedge rolls off to the side, leaving her with only one shoe. "Excuse me a moment, will you?" she emits pleasantly as she bends down toward the shoe to collect it. While leaning to get the shoe with one hand, the other is holding onto the table as though for support, or it would be if it weren't completely underneath it.

When Vasha straightens up again, she's giving him a narrow eyed partial smile. "You will excuse me for asking, but I have met many bosses since my arrival to America. May I know the name of yours in particular so that I might distinguish him from all the rest?"

Despite his pronouncement, Roscoe never takes that first drag, his hand remaining away from him in lazy gesture. "Yeah, thought you might," he answers her sarcasm with bland honesty, "Since you were bein' all uppity about it." click, snap. A second time with the lighter as he brings that hand to his hip, fingers splayed to keep the silver rectangle in his grip while also affecting the pose that brushes his jacket back slightly — awards a glimmer of metal beside fancifully colored shirt.

But he makes no move for it, only watching Vasha's little game with her shoe idly before glancing in boredom off to the side. There's no more sun to spot, but the water provides vague scenery for the moment. "You ain't gonna need that, honey." A little sniff; he snorts, brings the cigarette near his mouth — but then blows off the movement when he suddenly has something to say: "Many bosses, that's great. See, this is why I never am a fan of hiring from the outside. So, no. You 'mayn't' know his name, because he didn't give you his real one. How's 'the one paying you more than everybody else' for size?"

"Anyway, you got an envelope," his hand moves away from his hip, replacing the jacket, as he moves it to press against his chest instead, "I got an address. You want it or you don't."

There's a small click from under the table and Vasha's hand is languidly pulled back into view. It is safe to assume that the click was the hammer of a pistol being eased off. "Ah yes," she intones her voice sounding a touch more pleasant than before, "I remember that one. He is rather difficult to forget." With a swirl of her hand, she motions to the chair on the other side of the table and then reaches for the ice bucket.

Gripping up the bottle, she refills her glass and then lofts one eyebrow skyward as she considers Roscoe. "Would you care for a glass of your own or are you simply here to deliver the address?" In the evening heat, the chilled bottle sweats. The beads of water slip over her fingers and drop to the table.

There's a shift in Roscoe's weight, onto his heels; he looks contemplatively to the side, away up the docks to the streets and city beyond. 'Contemplative' isn't really a natural look for him, though, and he obeys his true nature by soon enough wiping the thought away with a hand rubbed against his chin, in favor of that bit of grin. "What kind of man would I be to refuse a glass from a lady?" He ambles forward, kicking out the offered chair and flopping down with a kind of graceful carelessness. Slouching, his long legs reach far under the bolted table.

"Difficult to forget," he muses once seated, voice flattening briefly to something dryer. Something unspoken but hinted at in the intensity of his eyes: strong emotion attached to their mutual employer. "… That'd be the boss." As though in treaty for her invitation, he throws one leg across the other and crushes the cigarette out on his boot.

Following up on her offer, Vasha pulls a glass from the side of the ice bucket and places it on the table near Roscoe, filling it half full of the chilled beverage. Her eye travel to the crushed cigarette and she hums a little before standing and traveling toward one of the storage benches near the cabin entrance.

"It would not do to have you holding that the entire time we are having a conversation," she begins slowly, pulling a black ashtray from the bench. It's the sort of kind you would find in a bar, nothing special, just a circular plastic tray with a few divots in the middle ring. "Simply because it would distract me."

She places the ashtray down on the floor next to Roscoe before retaking her seat and giving him a rather wane smile. "Now, if you would continue. You mentioned that you had an address for me?"

Having been mashing the cigarette butt idly between his fingers, Roscoe is gracious enough to emit a semi-grateful noise when she reveals the tray. He's got eyes on her the whole while she's moving, and particularly when she's right there next to him. His elbow resting on the chair's arm, he lets her put it down and get all the way to her seat before he heaves forward, aiming and flicking the spent cigarette deftly into the middle of the black circle.

Already sitting forward now, he adjusts to the right side to retrieve the glass. Caught in several fingers, the wine is drifted off at an angle, swirled expertly at the bottom of the glass in a moment of odd sophistication.

He doesn't seem to notice what he's doing, still eyeing her, the other hand tapping fingers against the edge of the table. "I did… of course, everything's going well — there won't be any problems… ? Havin' a whole lotta bosses, I'm betting, makes you pretty good at keeping a tight schedule. I like timeliness myself," he passes by her direct question, unperturbed, however, "Lets you have these little moments later." The wine is raised up in demonstration.

Out of the corner of her eye, Vasha carefully observes Roscoe. "I do not have so many, not all at once," she divulges after a few minutes of scrutinizing him. "I take on only one opportunity at a time, if the pay is enough. Of course, there are other considerations. At the moment I am involved in a personal venture but when your 'boss' presented himself…" She pauses and her voice drifts off, she turns her head more in his direction before taking a breath to continue. "… He does not leave much space to maneuver, if you catch my meaning."

Her glass is lifted and she offers him a small, yet friendly, smile. An expression that is rather foreign to the woman. "But yes, you are quite correct. Things are progressing quite well, I hope to be in possession of the package very soon."

Roscoe's lips draw up halfway between a smirk and a sneer, his head nodding, allowing of her observation, even as the hand jumps from the table to rub, seemingly idly, at his nose which hides the expression some. "Class act," he repeats humorously, needlessly cementing the earlier description. There's a tip of the head, though, and all the examination is done of her. "So this is just," he gestures aimlessly, wordless, before fingers curl and he has it, "easy breezy for you. Handlin' shit like this — excuse me again — all the time."

Suddenly, with a jerking movement, he's leaning in over the table, shoulders forward and both hands out in front of him pointedly, though the wine glass makes less of a statement as it swishes along. "See," he exclaims to accent the press in, "See, this is why I say— I say 'never underestimate those women'. 'Specially fine pieces like you." A confirming nod and he begins to sit back, "Dealin' all the time with…" Now his hand twirling is towards her, encouraging her to fill in his blank.

"Easy breezy? I am afraid I am not familiar with the expression but if you believe it is something simple…" Vasha shrugs just one of her shoulders before rolling it back. Her glass is lifted to her lips for one more sip, the heat of the evening necessitating some sort of refreshment. "It is something that I have never done before, I am unused to handling such dangerous materials. Preparations must be made."

The jerky motion causes the brunette to start a little and she narrows her eyes just a little as her smile widens into a smirk. "I thank you for the compliment, Mister…" It is her turn to leave him enough room to fill in the blank but she doesn't wait long. "If fine pieceS such as myself were dealing with nuclear matter all of the time, we would not be fine very long. Mmm? But the danger will be well worth seeing the compensation."

To her quip, he gives a low, morbid chuckle deep in his chest — it ends a bit raspy, but he clears his throat and moves on quickly enough. "That's the way the way to look at it, lady." Raising the glass in toast to her, he follows with the glass to his lips and knocks back the entire contents. Just short of slamming the wine glass down on the table, he lays out an open palm for her. "Well, far it— not from— " Ahem. "I ain't gonna keep you from all these 'preparations' of yours."

His thumb rubs in idle scrubbings across the top of the glass where he'd drunk from, smearing away leftover moisture. Citing the address — a deposit box, a safe container for the material at hand — he gives her only as long as it takes to say it to memorize the information.

"Make sure you ain't followed, yadda yadda. Then," here he leans in a second time, his bored eyes of before attentive to this detail, "You contact the boss. Tell him… 'pawn — to king's bishop three'." There's a bit of a glimmer in his eyes, catching hers, before he sets his hands to the table edge and stands with a thick push. "You've been a dear, and shit — it's been a while since I've had a true Riesling."

Without wasting time looking around, he makes to the edge of the boat, grabs for a dock post — mid-movement turning back to her. "He'll be right on it with all your due compensation."

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