The telepathic not-quite Francophile with a strong god complex and disillusionment with life. Compliment her if you like — she's gorgeous and used to it. Want to impress her? Nothing interests her more than a basket case. Be interesting, smart, or possibly wear a pair of glasses, she likes the studious look. Once a whore, always a whore.
On a scale of one to ten, rate your appearance. 11. How much do you enjoy being in control? I LOVE IT. Would you rather be a pornstar or a prostitute? PROSTITUTE. PEOPLE ILLEGALLY DOWNLOAD PORN ALL THE TIME. IT'S MORE ECONOMIC. How big are your boobs? Alternatively, how big is your dick? OH, COME ON. If you could have a threesome right now, who would you do it with? ARMAND AND DANIEL.
An old family friend of the Balfours, Parisa has been most recently invited to Saltburnt as an English tutor to Bunny, and has since assumed the role of his and the rest of the Balfours therapist. Her qualifications are questionable at best.
BACKSTORY:
Born in Tehran, Iran to two wealthy parents, Parisa and her twin Armand were raised in excessive luxury. Despite that, Parisa has always harbored a strong desire to get out and see the world. Bringing herself to Europe to run through the school system, she spent her time the way any good socialite girl in polite society should — picking apart the available bachelors for the best possible match. Enter in one Gale Dekarios, humble and handsome, and most importantly rich. There followed a swift marriage, mainly unhappy and with Parisa's more promiscuous tendencies as a point of contention, before she filed for divorce. Naturally, she took it all from him.
Now in her divorce era, Parisa is back to her wayward ways, searching for new gold mines to pick through (see: the Balfours). Saltburnt is a temporary spot, but a comfortable one.
RUMORS:
💋 As children, Parisa and Armand could have full conversations staring each other in the eye, unblinking.
💋 Until she was 15, Parisa claimed she would marry her brother when she grew up.
💋 On the subject of her failed marriage and any lingering feelings, Parisa has been quoted to say, "I just loved his little cat."
💋 Every year for his birthday, Parisa gifts Armand a fresh bottle of her signature perfume. "So you don't forget me," she says.
💋 As a girl, Parisa would cut her hair short to match Armand, until their parents allowed him to grow his out instead.
💋 It's said that Parisa has mastered the art of staring a person into orgasm. Those who've tested it report a hypnotic trance, like the pleasure was ripped out from their guts.
💋 When asked for her beauty routine Parisa once claimed, "Fox urine." Hunting websites were out of stock for months.
💋 As babies, Parisa would suck Armand's thumb instead of her own, and vice versa. No one ever knew how they got out of their cribs, but every morning they'd be cuddled up together regardless, sleeping soundly.
It's a showdown like some old Western, if every audience member and the two dueling cowboys happened to be dressed in dark wool or pleated skirts, plucked from catalogue of first week students attending Oxford. You don't smile because of clothes — you do smile because one particular witness, one Elizabeth "Libby" Rhodes, is confident you will kill the man you're up against. Because you're mean. Because she knows the power of a mean woman. Because it is something to smile about, when someone takes you seriously.
Callum Nova, the empath you're about to destroy, who does not take you seriously, "Rhodes, turn your anxiety down."
You, the telepath, who has zero intention of honoring the spirit of the no astral planes rule, because you have zero interest in dying at the hands of a man with a fading hairline, "Don't worry about him, Rhodes. He'll be fine."
After a few waiting moments, Dalton Ellery, the man you are currently fucking, and referee for this fight states, "Start."
"Why are you here?" you begin.
"You want to do this as a debate? Or an interrogation?" Callum chuckles.
The truth is you barely want to be doing this at all. But — this is the question on everyone's minds, why a man so interested in doing absolutely none of the researching work of students decided to take up an internship with a highly exclusive organization, offering all the hidden knowledge of the world on a silver platter. The given promise that the seven who enter the program will eventually be the six, after a singular sacrifice. This is to decide that, in a way. Mentalists can be profoundly unlikable, as both you and Callum are intimately aware. It was always going to be one of us, not only because of us unfavorable powers, but because we're superfluous. When arranging a company of overly powerful medians, magicians with exemplary and interesting powers, one wouldn't think to invite both an empath and a telepath to the party.
Hence: this. One fight to decide who stays, and who goes. To the death, in a certain light.
"Varona," you call to Nico de Varona, a part of the witnesses, for a specific reason. "what do you not do at the beginning of a fight?"
"Most things," he replies. Not good enough.
"And why not?"
It's a given truth that when you fill up a room with academic overachievers, they'll have to claw over each other like hungry jungle cats to reach the conclusion first. You ask Nico, but five adjacent minds go heavenward in thought, wanting not only to be right, but to be better. To humiliate you with asking the wrong person the wrong question. Tristan and Reina think almost simultaneously — you're asking Nico about fights and not me? in conjunction to Libby's why ask Varona? as if he's paying attention, and on the lines of Callum and Dalton, ever analysts, just what is Parisa getting at?
Naturally, while their minds drift in that singular second of thought, which you purposely made for this exact reason, you seize hold of their collective consciousness and push them not into the astral plane, but into the mind of one Nico de Varona, into a display that is notably, an exact replica of the room you were just in, an exact replica of the Alexandrian Society, down to the curving wallpaper on the walls. Nico's mind can wander occasionally, but he has fewer impenetrable walls, and you can support reality where it needs doing. Because, you came prepared. Because, you've spent months in between reading about old mathematician scholars and philosophers, trying to understand the concept and passage of time, memorizing this manor. Because, when push comes to shove, not a single one of them notices you dragging them somewhere else. Because no one knows, you've already won.
"Don't know the traps," Nico offers, aptly. "have to learn the other person's rhythm first before you deal the heavy blows."
Counterpoint: if you trap them before they know they've even considered a trap in the works, rhythm is unimportant. There's just you, and your inevitable victory.
"There. See? Even Varona knows," you reply. Callum scoffs.
"Is that what we're doing? Sparring? I thought the purpose was to differentiate ourselves from the physical specialties, not conform to them."
"Answer the question," you say, smiling. They have certainly been differentiated from the physical. That's true.
"Very well. I joined because I had no other pressing plans. And now, I believe, it's my turn to ask you a question. Correct?"
"If you'd like."
"Marvelous. When did it occur to you that you were beautiful?"
You flinch. Really, more as a twitch. Not because you aren't aware of your beauty, but because this is the avenue he's chosen to go down, which is — well, you should've expected he of all people who see you as shallow. You are, to be fair. When people look at you, it's the first thing of note they clock, oftentimes not getting any further than the specifics of why beautiful means to them, how they see it in you. Slim, feminine build, long legs, sleek hair, plush mouth mouth, dainty hands, sultry eyes. Why bother asking? All the world can see it, all the world has made a decision about you before ever knowing your name. Callum, you can feel, puts emphasis on your suspicion.
"It's not a trap for your modesty," he assures. "not much of one, anyway, when surely we can all confirm it for fact."
The best empaths give the impression of telepathy, simple by how they read emotions. There's no debating Callum is good at what he does. "My modesty is not at issue. I simply fail to see the relevance."
"It's an opening swing. Or, it you prefer, a control."
"Is this some sort of polygraph?"
"You asked me why I was here in order to gauge some sort of truth from me, didn't you? Given your own parameters, surely I can do the same."
Not a bad idea as far as their little game goes, but he's mistaken your intentions, naturally. He expects this to be a fair fight. More — he expects to win. Still, you're irritated. Doesn't anyone have anything new to say?
"Fine. You're asking when I knew I was beautiful? I've always known."
"Well, surely that's true in some sense," Callus continues, loftily. "but you're not just ordinarily beautiful, are you? You're the kind of beauty that drive men to warfare. To madness."
Now aptly irritated, "If you say I am."
"So, when did you first understand it? Your power over others. Men, primarily," he says, looking at you keenly. "Or was it a woman first? No," he corrects himself, seeing something in you that gives you away. "Of course it was a man."
"Of course it was a man," you echo, wryly. "It always is."
"You have a loneliness to you, you know. But it's a bit ... manufactured, isn't it? You're not an only child; that would be a different sort of loneliness. Like Rhodes," he says, gesturing over his shoulder. "she's lonely and alone, but not you. You're lonely because you choose to be."
You're careful, now. Maybe Callum is more astute than you expected. Maybe he's a better empath than you knew. Of course, you did know. You saw it. That's why you're here. This is all to be expected — you anticipated bleeding a little. "Perhaps I simply loathe other people."
"What's your sister's name?" Callum asks, and you start, again surprised but not really surprised, by the direction he takes. Asking about the family? It's therapy 101. "You were close, of course, until you weren't. Your brother has some sort of strong name, I suspect; masculine, difficult to fracture. He's the heir, isn't he? The oldest, and then your sister, and then you. He favored you, your brother, and your sister turned you away ... and she didn't believe you, did she? When you told her what you saw inside his mind."
The thing about being a mentalist, is that you know how you respond to things. You're so aware of your brain, you know the wrinkles of it, the sloshes and sighs and movements of it. And so — you know this reaction is not you, the brought up pain, this split open wound, like you haven't already dissected every avenue of your family life long before you abandoned it back in Tehran. This is Callum, putting emphasis on the feeling of that hurt. Your brothers thoughts, where they surrounded you, indeed all about your beauty, that inexorable thorn in your side. That thing that convinces men they have power over you, because they do, in a certain respect. Your societal worth, the wealth of your being, it's all tied up in the value of your beauty, in how much people are willing to offer and spend and lose in exchange for it. That's fine. You know this.
But your brother? You had the adolescent daydream of expecting better. You were still young then. You still smiled. The people who were meant to care for you in your girlish youth, your older siblings, your very best friends. Spoiled, rotten, unsympathetic. You're lying, Mehr shouted, when you said what you saw, one blind hand reaching in the dark for a savior. don't you ever lie about that again. She slapped you.
"Let's see," Callum says, snapping his fingers, decorating the walls with different shades of different colors with a thought. Illusions, his secondary magic. A wall goes green. "Money, that's easy enough." A wall goes gilded, as if touched by golden light. "Obviously you were well educated. Private tutors."
"Yes."
"That stopped after a time. You adored your tutor, of course. You love to learn. But your brother, he didn't like you paying so much attention to someone who wasn't him. So sad! Poor little Parisa, princess of her family, locked inside her vault of riches like a sweet, caged bird. And how did you get out?" The wall paints itself with you, your younger self, the way you looked before you got married and left your family home forever. "Ah, of course. A man."
The illustration dances forward, as if on a breeze. You watch it go, feeling a belated pang of empathy for that girl. The one no one ever empathized with. The pretty one, no one bothered to look at in a way beyond skin deep. Certainly not like this, in any case — unfortunately, this is maybe the most seen you've ever been in your life. Most don't even acknowledge you might be lonely. How could you be, with a face like that?
"Walk with me," Callum encourages, and you buckle, lacking the strength to fight him. You're not putting up a fight, in any case. You don't want to. The others follow behind, rapt. "More room this way. What was I saying? Ah, yes, someone saved you — no, you saved yourself," he amends, leading you through the anteroom towards the great room. "but you made him believe it was his doing. Was it ... you brother's best friend? Yes, his closest friend; I can feel the betrayal. He expected something from you for his efforts ... eternal devotion? No," he laughs. "of course not. He wanted something much more ... accessible."
He glances at you. Cutting. Cold eyes, a mockery of the empathy in them. The lights overhead go extinguished, dramatically. Cunt.
"How old were you?" he asks. You swallow, dryly.
"Eighteen."
"Liar."
Your lips thin.
"Fifteen,"
"Thank you for your honesty. So, you must have been what, eleven when you knew?"
"Twelve."
"Right, right, of course. And your brother was seventeen, eighteen ...?"
"Nineteen."
"Naturally. And your sister, fourteen?"
"Yes."
"So troubling. So very, very troubling." Callum reaches to touch your cheek, and you give him what he wants, shrinking away, repulsed. He laughs, beckoing you through the doors of the upper-floor state room. "So it's me you hate, then?"
"I don't hate you."
"You don't want to hate me, because you suspect me of committing terrible crimes with such silly things as hatred."
It's not how you would put it. You don't think Callum hated those people you watched him kill, more that he's ambivalent to the concept of existing, where it occurs for other people and himself, equally. He disturbed you, not because of his killing, but because of how he did it — talking, convincing their enemies to turn their guns back on themselves, to make it their idea. You can stomach violence, gore, killing, the kind of shallow violence and hate that all people are inherently capable of. That coldness? That's why you're here now, what you have to show the rest.
Stepping into the formal drawing room, Callum holds out a hand. "Shall we?"
You glare at him. "You want to dance?"
"I want to see if you can keep up."
You do, after a huffing sigh, take his hand. You fall into an uncannily perfect waltz, his hands upon your waist, and use your own magic to trigger some music somewhere — a dropped needle on a record player. He's beginning to grown confused: why aren't you fighting back? Why was it so easy so far? Suspicious? No, no — you shake your head, twirling in his arms. Give him something to latch onto.
"I assume you think you're winning," you say.
"You tell me. You're the one who can supposedly read my thoughts."
"You spend most of your existence in the singular belief that you're winning." Idly, "To be honest, Callum, there's nothing so very interesting to read."
A sensitive spot. Callum loathes the idea of being boring. Good. Go harder.
"Oh?"
"There's not much going on in there," you assure him. "No particular ambition. No sense of inadequacy."
"Should I feel inadequate?"
"Most people do."
"Perhaps I'm not most people. Isn't that the point?"
"Isn't it just," you murmur. Thinking about his cold calculation. The way he kills lacking all tenderness.
"You're so very guarded with me," Callum says, disapprovingly. "It's really starting to hurt my feelings."
"I wasn't aware you had any feelings available to hurt."
There, that does it. Something shifts in him — how interesting, the empath's sensitive parts are proclaiming he feels nothing at all. He spins you out, color lifting back up on the walls, all painted a bloody crimson.
"Was this is? I'm not quite sure I have the precise hue."
"For what?" You stiffen.
"Your wedding dress," he comments, smiling politely to your freezing momentarily in place. If the waltz wasn't so smooth, it might be overlooked. "How is your husband, by the way? Alive, I assume. I imagine that's why you changed your name, went to school in Parisa? You don't strike me as the career-oriented type, so I assume you were fleeing something. And what better place to hide than within the walls of a magically warded university?"
Hot, blinding rage. He's putting the pressure on but you don't think you need it — you're furious at his quick work, teeth gritted, flashes of color like sparking fireworks in your vision. This, no one knows about. These things you've tried to forget, these truths you've left behind for so long, you had no idea they could still hurt you this badly.
"Oh, it's not the worst thing. Plenty of teenagers have run from their tyrannical husbands before. Did your brother try to stop it? No, of course not. He never forgave you for turning from him, and this was your punishment."
You're dizzy, now. You step back, breaking the dance, and Callum holds out a hand to you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The telepathic not-quite Francophile with a strong god complex and disillusionment with life. Compliment her if you like — she's gorgeous and used to it. Want to impress her? Nothing interests her more than a basket case. Be interesting, smart, or possibly wear a pair of glasses, she likes the studious look. Once a whore, always a whore.
On a scale of one to ten, rate your appearance.
11.
How much do you enjoy being in control?
I LOVE IT.
Would you rather be a pornstar or a prostitute?
PROSTITUTE. PEOPLE ILLEGALLY DOWNLOAD PORN ALL THE TIME. IT'S MORE ECONOMIC.
How big are your boobs? Alternatively, how big is your dick?
OH, COME ON.
If you could have a threesome right now, who would you do it with?
ARMAND AND DANIEL.
no subject
THERAPIST
An old family friend of the Balfours, Parisa has been most recently invited to Saltburnt as an English tutor to Bunny, and has since assumed the role of his and the rest of the Balfours therapist. Her qualifications are questionable at best.
Born in Tehran, Iran to two wealthy parents, Parisa and her twin Armand were raised in excessive luxury. Despite that, Parisa has always harbored a strong desire to get out and see the world. Bringing herself to Europe to run through the school system, she spent her time the way any good socialite girl in polite society should — picking apart the available bachelors for the best possible match. Enter in one Gale Dekarios, humble and handsome, and most importantly rich. There followed a swift marriage, mainly unhappy and with Parisa's more promiscuous tendencies as a point of contention, before she filed for divorce. Naturally, she took it all from him.
💋 As children, Parisa and Armand could have full conversations staring each other in the eye, unblinking.
💋 ARMAND KAMALI — twin brother. beloved. confidant.
💋 every time armand surprises her with a new piercing, she gets one to match. every single time.
pinterest.
BACKSTORY:
Now in her divorce era, Parisa is back to her wayward ways, searching for new gold mines to pick through (see: the Balfours). Saltburnt is a temporary spot, but a comfortable one.
RUMORS:
💋 Until she was 15, Parisa claimed she would marry her brother when she grew up.
💋 On the subject of her failed marriage and any lingering feelings, Parisa has been quoted to say, "I just loved his little cat."
💋 Every year for his birthday, Parisa gifts Armand a fresh bottle of her signature perfume. "So you don't forget me," she says.
💋 As a girl, Parisa would cut her hair short to match Armand, until their parents allowed him to grow his out instead.
💋 It's said that Parisa has mastered the art of staring a person into orgasm. Those who've tested it report a hypnotic trance, like the pleasure was ripped out from their guts.
💋 When asked for her beauty routine Parisa once claimed, "Fox urine." Hunting websites were out of stock for months.
💋 As babies, Parisa would suck Armand's thumb instead of her own, and vice versa. No one ever knew how they got out of their cribs, but every morning they'd be cuddled up together regardless, sleeping soundly.
IMPORTANT CONNECTIONS:
💋 GALE DEKARIOS — ex-husband. disappointment.
OTHER NOTES:
VISUALS:
— the curious argument of a telepath and an empath.
(one death of one parisa kamali)