Logs:Resource

Resource
cn: allusions to murder and child sexual abuse
Dramatis Personae Clint, Lucien
In Absentia	2022-05-30 "I'm pretty handy."
Location <NYC> Clint's Building - Rooftop - Hell's Kitchen
This is just another aging apartment building in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, hanging onto its lower income residents for the moment even as developers snap up nearby real estate to renovate. The rooftop offers a decent view of Hell's Kitchen to the west, with the highrises of Times Square and Midtown looming to the east. There's a sturdy sun-bleached picnic set near the roof access door and a row of archery targets line the far side of the roof. Clint hangs a "Caution: archery in progress" sign on the inside of the door, then locks said door after them just for good measure. He's in a red tee with bold pixelated text reading "It's from Japan!", faded blue jeans, and red sneakers. "They're used to this," he reassures his guest as he goes to set a bottle of Laphroaig and two mismatched lowball glasses down on the picnic table. Then he unslings his bow case and quiver alike and half-sits on the edge of the table so he can keep a sightline to his companion while he checks over his gear. "So. Rough day?" Mild, even, thoughtful. In contrast to Clint's casual, Lucien is still in his crisply tailored grey suit, though in deference to the heat he has at least removed his jacket, likely abandoned somewhere in Clint's apartment now. He's pouring a generous measure of the Scotch into each of the glasses, and takes a large swallow of his own before answering Clint. 'I quit my job', his first answer is a little stilted, his signing far from fluid; he switches back to English for the rueful clarification: "Not the show, regrettably. Is there..." He hesitates, brows creasing over some internal struggle to choose his next words. "What line would your employer have to cross with you for you to decide it's too much?" Clint picks up his glass and salutes Lucien with it before taking a gulp of his own. "Huh," is his only comment initially. He sets the glass down and runs his fingers lightly over the edge of the elegant recurve bow in the case. "Don't know whether I should be congratulating you." His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. "I came pretty close, after that contract up in Maine, but it's hard to say how much of that was the sense my boss could have done more and how much was just--what I saw in there." He studies Lucien very seriously. "Gotta say I'm a little dubious about what we're getting up to now, through it's no dispute those people are better off in our care than they were before. How about you, then? You're one of the most patient people I know." "Not torturing them is an exceptionally low bar to clear." Lucien's forefinger taps quick and restless against the side of his glass. "Working somewhere like the Club, patience has always been a bit of a survival mechanism. I cannot get through a week without some billionaire who has never heard no in their life demanding pangolin steaks or for the fixtures in their bathroom to be plated with gold before they arrive or the blood of a virgin to bathe in. I have adjusted to a certain degree of audacity in the requests that I field, but then --" He doesn't finish this thought. His hand clenches harder around the glass, and he takes another gulp. "Not claiming any moral high ground myself, but we start imprisoning people now..." Clint shrugs, sipping at his scotch. "It's got me thinking maybe I'm a little too comfortable leaving conscience at the foot of necessity." He waits another beat before prompting Lucien. "What did they ask for, this time?" His addendum is just as calm and nonchalant as he removes the bow from the case to string it. "You don't have to say. If you just want to get plastered and shoot, I got you." For a time it seems like Lucien might not say; his expression is a blank mask, his eyes fixed on his drink as if it might have some answers. When the Scotch fails to deliver he does, finally, dredge up words of his own. "They had just come by seeking drugs. I was watching my coworker's child at the time and they asked that I send the little girl up, as well." It's certainly not nonchalance in Lucien's voice, but it is very calm when he adds: "-- they went on to imply this was a service they were well used to enjoying, at our other locations." Clint stares fixedly at Lucien as he speaks--not so unusual, given his communication needs, but he continues staring after, too. "Well, then." He hooks one leg around the bow and bends it carefully, slipping the string into place. "I assume your employer didn't see fit to look into it, or can't be expected to actually do anything about it if they did. Though, regardless of that..." He thumbs his bowstring idly and considers Lucien's serene expression. "It's not as if the rich are really subject to the law, when it comes down to it." "Oh, it was made well clear to me that my position there is to ensure the satisfaction of our guests, and that any breach of discretion will end up more poorly for me than for them. I do not doubt it." Lucien's hand turns elegantly upward, outward toward Clint. "As you say, -- the law is hardly adequate to address most injustice, but it was never even intended to constrain such people." His eyes have slid from his drink to Clint's bow, watching the reverberation of its string. "The law is, though, only one tool among many." Clint sucks on his bottom lip. "Mmph." He flips the case over and unzips its other compartment, nudging it toward Lucien. "This one should be about right for your draw length." The second recurve is almost identical to the one in Clint's hand--a little longer, a lot less worn, with green accents instead of purple. "I know you're a resourceful guy. Do you have any...suitable tools?" He picks up his glass and drinks deep. "I know some people who are pretty handy." After a pause, adds, "I'm pretty handy." Lucien sets his glass down so that he can pick up the bow, eying it thoughtfully. "I admit this is a little bit out of my usual sphere of expertise, but then -- the better part of being resourceful is knowing the right people to turn to for assistance." He's stringing this bow, now, but pauses to glance to Clint with a very slight lift of brows. "I realize this is asking a fair bit more than some Scotch and stress relief, but in another week they will be departing the country once more and I am not sure I could conscience simply sending them off to continue their -- vacation -- abroad." Clint straightens up, shifting the bow in his hand to recall its balance. "There's a lot of things broken in this world. Not a lot of them I can fix outright." He rolls one shoulder, the other, then both wrists, tossing the bow lightly from one hand to the other. "There's not really any such thing as going legit. Maybe that's leaving my conscience at the foot of necessity, too." He plucks a purple and green-vaned arrow from the quiver, rolling it meditatively in the palm of his right hand. "You happen to know their itinerary?" "Mmm." Lucien's lips compress, and he gives a very small shake of his head. "I would much rather the conscience that takes action when no one else will than one that sits complacently by because the law proscribes justice." He's reaching again for his glass, downing another swallow of the Scotch. "Oh, when our guests arrive I receive everything short of their blood type. I can give you a thorough accounting of their plans from now until they depart for Majorca." Clint gives a quick, tight nod. "It's not always easy to know what's right, but this..." He lifts his eyebrows slightly and frees his right hand to sign, 'I can.' Dropping the arrow back into his free hand, he fits it to the string and draws. Holds. Releases--and an instant later the arrow thuds into the bullseye of the rightmost target. "We'll handle this."