Owner	Pose
Klavdiya Vasiliev	The kitchen at the Mansion has a good deal of hustle and bustle, especially around mealtimes. But afterwards, it is usually a reasonably quiet place, without many people around, except those who for some reason couldn't make the meals and are trying to scavenge something. Not one for crowds and tightly enclosed places, Diya does not tend to make regular mealtimes. Instead, she tends to show up and offer elbow grease and hard work to clean up, and then serves herself from the leftovers. Since she started this pattern of behavior, there haven't been nearly the leftovers in the fridge that there were previously; the woman seems to have an indomitable appetite. She is also noted by the staff for the fact that she does not talk much; a few words, at most, here or there as needed to communicate needs or determine intent. At the moment, the ashen blonde previously homeless soldier is still making do with her now cleaner veteran's attire, army surplus pants and shirts. She does not often bother with the oversized olive drab coat she wore on the streets, which means the very visible musculature of the soldier is on display, undounted. It does also mean, thankfully, that she is not carrying or concealing the firearm and knife she usually kept with her.
Penance	Monet St. Croix has been at the school only a week or two, and has been systematically rubbing everyone the wrong way. And it's not just the students; even the teachers and guest residents find themselves griping about her behaviour. High heels click against the floor and Monet walks into the kitchen, dressed in designer clothing that is wholly out of place in the relatively informal atmosphere of the kitchen area. With the main meal having been served and cleaned, Diya's the only one in the kitchen, and Monet makes a beeline for her. "We're out of heavy cream in the upstairs kitchen," she says, without so much as a 'hello'. "Who's responsible for keeping the refridgerator properly stocked up there?" she says, with a perfunctory tone, her Monagasque accent coming sharp and to the point.
Klavdiya Vasiliev	Green eyes lift briefly, just as perfunctorily, up to take in Monet as she speaks, and not before. The woman's scent offends the weretigress; perfume is something she loathes. She knows she never used to feel this way, but that doesn't change that even before the impractical high heels actually entered the kitchen, Diya already disliked her. The outfit, the attitude, it all rubs the soldier the wrong way. So she simply gives a sort of grunt and shrug, arms deep inside otherwise scalding water and suds as she scrubs out a large, industrial kitchen pot. Was that dismissive? Disrespectful? Mmm?
Penance	"Hello? Sie sprechen de deutsche? Parlez-vous France?" Monet moves to Diya's peripheral vision, flicking her fingers and snapping them rather imperiously. She mutters something under her breath in French, liquid and full of rolling objections to life in general. "Honestly, the serving staff here..." she mutters, stalking to one of the large upright fridges. She hauls it open and pushes around some of the contents, upsetting the careful arrangement of the goods inside that help the kitchen work efficiently. Not finding it in the first fridge, she moves to the second, and makes a face at the tupperwares full of leftovers set aside for hungry midnight snackers. "Good god, someone /eats/ this?" she mutters, daring to take a whiff of some rather excellent homemade stew. "/Peasant/ food," she mutters, tossing it carelessly back into the refridgerator.
Klavdiya Vasiliev	"Ja." Diya responds, when the imperious witch starts in on her German. She then confirms she speaks English, and Russian. No French, though. But she offers no help, until Monet starts in about the food. Then she whips around - very, very fast, a spray of soapy hot water following after her arms - and reaches for the witch woman's long hair to snatch it up and yank. "That is enough." Diya growls, her eyes no longer green, but amber. Her voice seems much deeper, rumblier than her size would account for, and she's no smoker. "You insult these people and their work again, and I will teach you a lesson your backside will not soon forget." She apparently cares nothing for an insult to herself, but an insult to the rest of the staff - '''another''' insult - is more than she will tolerate.
Penance	Monet screams in shock as someone grabs her hair. Her /hair/! But her scream is more outrage than pain, and she grabs at the fingers in her perfectly coiffed black locks, with tremendous strength. Monet's nowhere near as expert a grappler as Diya is, but she drops and twists around to take away some of the other woman's leverage, and grabs the front of Diya's shirt with her other hand. And lifts. Effortlessly. "Let go of me before I rip your arm off and beat you with it, /peasant/," she hisses, applying more pressure to the knuckles wrapped around her hair.
Klavdiya Vasiliev	"Try it, spoiled brat." Diya snarls. She is indeed a very expert grappler, and she is already moving; oddly, she doesn't seem shocked that Monet can lift her like this; but her shirt is not going to survive the experience intact. Diya doesn't seem to care. Even as the fabric is very nearly disintegrating, Diya twists around, looping her legs around the arm in a figure-4 lock, plants her boot - her well-used, certainly not pristine boot's sole - against the other woman's face and pulls until the shirt shreds and she falls away, rolling backwards up to her feet, hands out, low and crouched, a sneer on her face, caring not for the revelation of the olive drab and tan brassiere within. A very, very low subsonic pulsation of sound moves through the room, more felt than heard, save by someone with truly, truly exceptional hearing. But the aura of a lethal and remorseless predator is unmistakable; Diya may have started with an intention to teach a lesson, but the result could well be the end of a life. There is no hestitation in her. None.
Penance	Monet seems vastly more irritated by the dirt on her face than any pain caused. She spits and makes noises of objection, wiping at her face with the fabric clutched in her hand. She glares at Diya and tosses the soiled scrap of fabric aside, contemptuously pulling her hair back into proper configuration with a scrape of her immaculately manicured nails. "I wouldn't soil my new Delmans in a puddle of your blood," she says, sniffing haughtily and looking away from Diya as she rapidly recomports her clothing. "And don't growl at me, you sound ridiculous," she snaps, her accent growing thicker and more tonal as her temper flares, attempting to bully Diya back by dint of her superior social presence. Well, it works in Monaco, anyway.
Klavdiya Vasiliev	"You, brat, are the one who sounds ridiculous." the Russian woman snarls contemptuously, actually laughing at Monet's hystrionics. She's not bullied; indeed, she's not even affected. She seems darkly amused, if anything. "Your parents should have sent you to a proper academy, where you learned to control yourself and discover that leadership is defined by '''service''' to those you lead." Diya barks in that sharp Russian accent, all edges. "When you disrespect those who serve you without purpose or honor, you only humiliate yourself and denigrate your own authority." The mocking tone continues. "And if you allow yourself to be that distracted in battle, you dishonor yourself and everyone who serves with you. And set yourself up to be killed. '''Never''' assume you are the strongest, fastest, best trained person in the fight. Do, and one day you will be wrong, and dead, and of no good to anyone, including yourself."
Penance	While Okhotnik /lectures/ Monet, the socialite adopts a bored expression, standing with her hands on her waist and hips cocked-- a total dismissal of the serious proximate danger that Diya offers. At that range, there's no doubt the weretigress could do significant damage to someone. Which is likely why Monet is being so insultingly dimissive. Also, behind Diya, the high-pressure hose used to blast the dried food from the dishes silently uncoils, twists, and aims at her. Right before she says 'Yourself', the handle depresses and looses a blast of high-pressure water right at her ear. "I'm sorry, what? I was distracted," Monet says, examining her nails for chips or damage. It /was/ an expensive manicure, after all.
Klavdiya Vasiliev	A high pressure hose, however, does not move silently. Monet may not be able to hear it moving, but Diya can. And the light 'click' of the spring on the trigger depressing is all the clue she needs to duck and twist her head; she cares nothing for getting wet, but that blast to her ear would have been painful enough to be almost debilitating. Diya then explodes into action, moving with truly blurring speed. If one were looking close enough - if one cared - one could spot the lengthening of her teeth, the rippling beneath her skin, as Diya engages in battle and her tigress tries to break free. Diya is not fighting to kill; if she were, there would already be a knife in each hand, and she would be testing whether or not the brat's eyes are as resistant to harm as the rest of her, when the blades are propelled by her bulging, tiger-augmented muscules. But there can be no question that this woman is a born, bred, gifted and well trained fighter, with both skill and sheer brutality. A kick is delivered at the outer left ankle with punishing, breaking force, even as a punch is delivered with metal-rending force towards Monet's inner right knee; and those are only the beginning of the rapid series of painfully disabling attacks that are launched. Apparently she is daring the brat to try ripping her arm off. If she can. If it isn't just more hollow, pompous posturing.
Penance	Monet stands with her arms folded impassively. She looks a little disappointed when the tiger dodges the blast of water. That would have been fun. Her eyes widen with mild alarm when Okhotnik /attacks/, with full force and fury in her face. Such a violent response is a bit out of Monet's wheelhouse, and it takes her aback and puts her solely on a responsive footing instead of a proactive one. Monet lifts her left foot off the ground before that sweeping blow can snack into the vulnerable joint. An improbable disregard for her balance suggests she's already flying to stabilize herself. When the punch smacks against her thigh, Monet flexes her muscles slightly-- skin that is impervious to bullet impact absorbs the blow with a meaty impact. It still hurts, though. Monet hisses and lifts her chin a fraction of an inch, and an unseen set of hands grabs Diya by the back of her neck with enough force to stop a speeding car, and angles to fling her into the floor as if chokeslamming her. Monet shoots backwards four feet, hovering in the air to relieve some of the cramping pain in her inner thigh, and keeps the telekinetic force bearing down in Diya to maintain that distance away from those sharp claws. "That /hurt/, you wretched mongel," she spits at Diya. "How dare you lay hands on me! I should have you flensed!"
Klavdiya Vasiliev	Yet when those unseen hands seize Diya, she does not stop nor even slow down, which is why her hands wrap around Monet's throat with crushing force. And they do not let go, the claws trying to grow out of the fingers meaning there's some scratching on the neck. "It was '''meant''' to hurt, you arrogant, clueless whelp! You think you are impervious. You think you are better than everyone. You are a clueless child, empowered by genetics and a social standing you did not earn and do not respect. You call me peasant? I am! The child of peasants, and a peasant myself. And I am a veteran Spetznaz, you pathetic brat. I do not fight to tease. I fight to win, to punish, and to kill." And then Diya squeezes. "And you need to breathe. So I suggest you let go. Or we will see which of us can live longest without oxygen."
Penance	Monet grips Diya's wrists when those fingers latch onto her throat, and with a set of her shoulders, starts to force them apart. Diya's strong, and fast. But the muscle in Monet's arms, no matter how hidden, isn't just for being fashionable. Strong enough to flip over an armored vehicle, the muscles in her back cord with the effort. Shallow red scratches follow the detaching claws, but up close Diya can seem them clot over and start healing almost instantly. Still gripping Diya's wrists, she starts to squeeze-- hard. Hard enough to crack granite or crush steel. "Last warning," Monet says, dreadfully calm fury in her voice. "Back off. You have no idea who I am or what will do to you." Her unusual dragon-hued eyes flare with a furious light, and she increases the pressure on Diya's wrists, threatening the bones. In a last ditch attempt to gain the upper hand, Monet flings herself psychically at Okhotnik's mind, plunging into the heart of that rage-- the fear that drives it-- to turn it against her. Monet is powerful, but trained she is not. That bridge burns both ways. A disciplined psychic could hold off the tide of Diya's fear, the source of that brutal and unrelenting competency. But Monet's talents are inequal to the task, and she is instead swept up into them, reliving a cascade of the trauma Okhotnik's endured. And at the same time, Monet's own fears, so close to the surface, bubble up and flood into Diya's mind. Memories of her time as a ravening, soulless monster. Injured. Torn. Attacked, over and over. The suffering she'd endured that hardened her, fed that barrier of haughty indifference that she used as a wall to keep others away from her. With a scream, Monet unleashes a blast of telekinetic force that rips the two women apart, flying backwards fifteen feet and slamming into the wall behind her. She gasps for air, wide-eyed and trembling at the horrific images in her mind's eye from Diya's memories. "Wh-- how are you alive?" she whispers, holding her hands up as if warding off the memories crashing around her. "The blood," she says, face stricken with nausea. "Oh god, so much blood." She shudders violently, unable to look at Diya.
Klavdiya Vasiliev	Not nearly as stunned as she should be - even '''she''' would acknowledge that - Diya tumbles and rolls, coming up in a crouch after she bounces off of a wall, shaking her head only slightly as she glares - eyes of warm, lethal amber - towards the girl. The victim. One of those she should have protected, had she but known. "Even I don't understand that." Diya answers, a bit slowly, her Russian accent stronger as she rises up and walks towards the girl, hand held down, clapping it around Monet's wrist as she hauls her up from the floor like she weighs nothing at all. "Anymore than you can understand '''why'''. What? Sure. You know what he did. But you'll never comprehend '''why'''. All you can do is be glad it's over, now. That, and find a way past it. Never forgotten. Never ignored, girl. But if you leave it to hang before your eyes, between you and all you see, he wins." Diya offers. They are the same lessons she has been striving to learn, trying to relegant the Hell of her experience to something less immediate, less in control of her every thought and deed. "Like it or not, the servants here have done you no ill. You '''will not''' treat them with disrespect. If you choose not to honor them as I would, so be it. But if you disrespect them when they have done you no ill again, you will never see me coming. You are smart enough to know better." Diya offers, implacably; despite the unbounded plethora of the other woman's power, she is undaunted. "You are smarter than that. And if you would be what you were born to be, you will '''become''' more than that." Diya intones, as she releases Monet's wrist and takes a step back. "I was not kidding: Leadership is '''service''' to those you lead. Respect it, and be better than the monster that haunts your nightmares."
Penance	Monet is stunned enough to allow herself to be hauled up to her feet, but she's unable to look back at Diya. The memories of a tiger mauling those features are too fresh, and she hugs her stomach almost immediately, brushing her hair back from her face quickly to try and conceal the mute shock still on her urbane features. "Fi-fine," Monet says, shaking slightly. She presses her lips into a thin line, almost bloodless behind the dark paint of her lipstick. "I'll... remember that," she mutters, the young socialite clearly badly rattled by the experience and the shared psychic overload. "I think I need a drink," she mutters, when Diya steps back. She gives the woman a fast, baleful look, but it's instantly mitigated by the memories that assault her, and she turns a little pale before walking off with a click of her heels on the tile floor, and Diya's words echoing more deeply in her mind than perhaps Diya might know-- or than Monet would ever be willing to admit.