Remembering Sunday

[Percival Quinn]

Forgiveness was a thing so easily won verbally. Thrown around far too often, it lost its stride the moment it left her mouth in such a manner. She couldn't have meant it if she tried.

"No. No, no," Raising a hand, he waved his index finger back and forth. Likely a little too close to her, given the distance in which they were standing. "Shifting backwards and shifting forwards are two very different things. The implications of one are far more pressing than the other. We'll take forwards steps once we've cleared the remnants of questions left behind us."

The proverbial; I will if you will. "Your answer, Ms Blaise." He reiterated, a small tilt of his head for his own inquisitive nature, "If you would be so kind."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

It felt like some sort of passive aggressive war, one that Penelope was quickly losing patience with. This was supposed to be her forte, growing up in the Blaise household made it necessary to survive.

Yet here he was, making up rules as he went, as if they actually followed some sort of universal law. And Penelope was quickly learning if she wanted anything out of him, she'd have to offer something herself.

"It depends. Every experience is different." She offered shortly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Everything leaves a different impression. I'm barely myself when I come back, how exactly does that pertain to anything?"

[Percival Quinn]

Eventually, she seemed to break down. Or at the very least, she tried to answer. She diverged off topic, veering slightly left of centre. Before he would answer anything she wanted him to, certain things had to remain clear.

"When you fail - at any thing in any time - what happens?" Percival asked, but he gave little to no time. Because it was clearly time to answer for her, "You get burned. And then you remember how not to burn yourself. Apply the same principal to your abilities; the more you allow yourself to understand it, the more you can register and keep it at bay."

There in was the breakdown. Pressing his hands together, he squeezed them once before releasing them again. A constant shift. An every day change. He indicated to her.

"If you so choose." He added; not that he ever would.

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

Penelope was quickly growing tired of the game this man seemed intent on playing. She answered his question, and was immediately given another one in response. It was annoying enough for the Brit to want to roll her eyes, but a steely expression ruled it out as she stared at him without emotion.

It was good that he had answered his own question, because Penelope had no intent on doing so herself until she got what she wanted out of this. An idea as to just what made him worthy of his position. Hammel was by no means a traditional school - they didn't even keep track of student rankings, who was to say that they wouldn't just hire anyone who applied?

His explanation made sense, but only to an extent. The metaphor he offered didn't help his argument, but rather start one for Penelope to fight with. "One does not actively put their hand to a flame to learn a lesson, Mr. Quinn."

[Percival Quinn]

A loss of eye contact was no great loss, really. First meetings were as they were always going to be. Stagnant and ill defined as anything but. Percival had met far too many students with far too many chip's on their shoulders, and this was nothing new. Nothing overtly special or defined.

"You started it," He replied promptly, "That's the difference."

He felt no ill feelings to being once again graced by a look from her eyes. How they chose to manoeuvre about his exterior like there might be something worth catching from it all. Or like it might tell her something she so desperately needed to know. Her repetition forced a smile to his face; a small dip of his gaze as his eyes closed and he tilted his head low. A raise of a hand, instead. The wave of a finger and a prompt look back up.

"No no, your answer first. I insist."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

If there could have provided to have some way for Penelope to skip this training, she certainly would have. Regardless of his own experience, the fact alone that he was making an attempt – just as everyone else – to convince the Brit that psychometry was an ability worth accepting was proof that she shouldn’t have been in this room at all. She had been thankful to have changed trainers; having only spent the time with her last sitting in a room and refusing to speak.

Now she was starting to wonder if that was the better choice of the two. This man quickly had proven himself to be something of a problem for the psychometrist.

"I don't learn anything from the experience." She finally offered, lips pressing together in frustration as she knew she would have to give an answer. "At least not in a general sense. I learn people's secrets; their thoughts and feelings. I have nothing to gain from it." Despite the potential for a variety of emotions to be given within the response, she gave nothing. Her tone remained flat as she looked more through the man than actually at him.

[Percival Quinn]

There must have been a disconnect Percival couldn't see. From the silence to the break she left in it, to the answer she gave, things didn't seem to add up. He furrowed his eyebrows as she continued speaking. Of course she learned things in the most obvious sense, but since when were they actively talking about that aspect?

"I'm not sure what made you quite so inaccessible to a simple question. Perhaps it is that you're used to being able to side-step a situation with what sounds like a clever answer." He reasoned, his tone devoid of any lighter touches. Any niceties. He was admitting judgement to the fact that she was still wrong, "But the correct answer - and I do fault you for being unable to see what's right in front of you - is that you learn something. Your understanding grows for the better."

But that sounded difficult to grasp. He looked down at her and openly searched her expression for any sign of life. When he was convinced he wouldn't find the connection, he clasped his hands together again. "When you're learning to ride a bike, and you fall off, you learn a little more about the inner workings of gravity and balance. You adjust accordingly. But if you never get back on the bike, you never learn." A slight unfurl of a hand. Because really, they were there to learn. She just didn't seem to want to.

"Get back on the bike, Ms Blaise, if you want to live a life a little more devoid of your own failures and everyone else's secrets."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

His tone was quick to void of any lightness, but it refused to etch a reaction into the psychometrist's features. Rather, she continued to give him a stoic expression, dark eyes easily could have been mistaken for lifeless. Something which seemed to not bother her new trainer. Or ex-trainer, as she was going to attempt after this meeting.

Because behind a nothing face hid a very annoyed Penelope Blaise. More than anything, the man was right. He was the first to not break within a small conversation with the clever Brit. Although, it was his mistake to think she wasn't. He had an advantage, and that was all she'd allow him.

Few dared have the courage - or possibly the stupidity - to claim that Penelope was a failure. Her lips pressed firmly together at the word, possibly the first break in her expression before she parted them. "You've made your point, Mr. Quinn. Now please offer your credentials, unless you'd rather I take them up with administration."

[Percival Quinn]

Percival wondered if making a point was the point here. Searching for a means to understand something so personal to any given individual seemed like an invasion. Asking for trust was moronic. Expecting it, even more so. She seemed a little poignant in the answer she gave, but there was always something to address before she got what she wanted.

"I'm not entirely sure I have, but we have at least another six months to build on that foundation." He replied, waving his hand at the fact. At least six months. After all, it all depended on how well faired against how intently she chose to stick to her prior pattern.

Pressed hands ran against each other quickly for a few moments, as if they were somehow getting into the crux of the issues at either end. As he let go, he swung his hands behind his back instead, holding on for more stability there. "You must think so little of an establishment to feel the urge to run to administration at the first sign of a disagreement." He denoted, his voice quick to finding what he now deemed as a fact.

"Which would you like to see?" He asked, hands letting to, extended lightly to either side. The threat of a shrug, or perhaps just an invitation to read an open book; "A graduating walk at Kocher in nineteen-seventy-six? Or the walk at Cambridge University - history and education - in nineteen-eighty-one?" Had he the time to stop and wonder how useful this snap resume was, he might have. But he likely wouldn't have cared; "Or perhaps something of the two years I taught there, or the twenty-two years I've been training individuals quite a lot like you."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

Penelope was beginning to draw a definite line around this man. He was clever - she'd give him that much - but it did little to compliment his undeniable rudeness. Passive aggression lined his tone in the most subtle of ways - only someone growing up in a household like hers could have so easily picked it up. Because he was quick to point out who held the power in this situation, something that irked the Brit more than she ever wished to admit. At least six months. Ultimately, it was this man's call whether she would be forced to continue training or not. A lesson she learned the previous year from a previous trainer.

She held her breath, just briefly, as she straightened her back. At least now he was giving into her request. Although the Brit hardly doubted she could have expected what was to come for an answer.

Cambridge. The singular name that worked a reaction into Penelope's features. Her eyes widened at the school, eyebrows twitching as she tried her best not to give a reaction to the place she had given up to stay here. She'd choose Vermont again, easily, but there was no doubt it was a sensitive subject.

On top of twenty-two years of training. Lifting her arms, she crossed them over her torso as the man explained. "And what was it that caused for a transfer, then?"

[Percival Quinn]

There was an obvious response from the girl. Finally. Like the word Cambridge had struck a match in her heart and it was illuminating the inner workings of her face. Up until that point, Percival wondered if it were even possible for her to maintain any kind of expression past the stonewall she favoured.

It was a welcomed change. Not that he rightly cared.

Her question wasn't exactly a difficult one. He assumed most would wonder what brought him here as opposed to the comforts Kocher likely seemed to provide. Except it stopped being so years ago. That wasn't something she needed to know, and so he kept it to himself.

A different route entirely.

"Stagnancy." He replied in time, as definitely as the word likely seemed. "I dislike stagnancy."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

Penelope had no real interest in his answer; it bought up some of the time set aside for her training. A slight veer from topic, and she accepted it wholeheartedly. Although her guard had been thrown off at the sign of an unexpected subject, Penelope refused to let herself falter. Instead her eyebrows twitched upward at what could have easily been seen as a reasonable answer.

"Stagnancy." She repeated with a small nod, a hum in her tone as dark eyes looked passed him entirely.

For someone who - up until a year ago - practically lived off of stagnancy, it didn't quite make sense. Still she let the word hang in the air for a series of seconds longer before trying again.

"So why are you still doing this?" She continued with feigned curiosity. "Training students. Even if each individual differs slightly, it must be a similar process - and twenty-two years of it, too."

[Percival Quinn]

"Stagnancy." Percival repeated. Because it felt right to. Maybe because he wondered if she'd caught the word. If she knew what it meant. It wouldn't be the first time his words were unreadable by those so much younger than him.

But she seemed smart. Felt smart, given her memories. And she felt highly aware of it.

She had her own series of questions, or comments, and he supposed he could accept them. After all, the basis for all firsts was not to hit the ground running. He preferred a cushion to his fall. Acceptance and answering, however, were two completely different margins.

"What makes you so afraid of what you can do?"

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

Penelope already had a quick plan of exit. In no way would she be able to work with this man for the remainder of the year; he was already implying that he very well might hold her back. With an Australian finally graduating so they could leave this place, Penelope refused to be the force that would bring them back there yet again.

As soon as this session was over, she could find her way to the office. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd made a formal complaint, nor the last.

Without an answered offer, the Brit raised her eyebrows just slightly. She hardly expected a question in return, let alone of the nature of the one offered. She paused, briefly, as her tongue ran the length of her lower lip before she brought her hands together again. "What makes you believe you can make a difference?"

[Percival Quinn]

As a late graduate himself, Percival was far too adept at understanding the importance of taking that extra time where necessary. Certainly, their abilities worked in some kind of relative tandem, and as such he couldn't imagine why anyone would bother to thwart their ability to grow. To understand. To inevitably control.

But she didn't answer. And he truly expected that she wouldn't. Not only had he failed to offer her an answer - though by the scheme of the proverbial game, he had answered enough for a turn of his own - but he'd obviously struck a nerve. One he'd hit before.

One he wanted to hit again.

"What makes you believe I can't?"