Logs:Operation: H.O.S.P.I.T.A.L.I.T.Y.

Operation: H.O.S.P.I.T.A.L.I.T.Y.
How One Seneschal Progressed Into The Arena of Luxury Innkeeping for Thieves and Yardbirds
Dramatis Personae Charles, Lucien, Clint, Kyinha, Hive, Matt, Mirror, Emma, Daiki, Ion, Tian-yi, Natasha, Clint, Carmen Pryde, Kim, Murphy
In Absentia Ryan, Shane, Tag	solstice thru imbolc "{It will be pleasant, I think, to make a fresh start.}"
Location the tortuous conception and birth of Le Bonne Entente
june 21. xavier's school. With classes letting out onto a bright summer day, the mansion is raucous with adolescent joy. Charles Xavier, no longer an adolescent, does not look particularly joyful as he rolls down the hall, but he puts on a bright smile when he spots a guest. "Ah, Mister Tessier! Good day, and belated congratulations on your accolades." He coasts to a stop. "They were well-earned." Lucien has been engaged in evidently rapt contemplation of one of the houseplants decorating the hallway, fingertip tracing lightly down the red veins of the prayer plant just starting to lift its leaves back upward. Among the sea of bright minds his is placid as ever, calm as is his expression when he looks up towards the Professor, inclines his head in a polite nod. "Oh! You saw it? My thanks," he replies with a small smile. "I cannot say my producers are the most pleased with me at the moment, but I am glad it has brought people some enjoyment." "I wish you the best in your bargaining -- it is apropos for the show, certainly." Xavier's eyes tick over to the plant Lucien had been admiring. "You'll be missed on stage and at the Club alike. Now, Frederick is a very competent young man, and he learned from the best, but there's no match for your attention to detail. The flower arrangements at my table just aren't the same." He leans lightly on one of his armrests to lend a conspiratorial air when he adds, "I'm not altogether sure the man can tell a Gibraltar campion from the garden variety." --- june 25. clint's rooftop range. The glass of bourbon sitting half empty on the rooftop wall is definitely not Luci's first -- not while he's been here, and there is a good chance he was not entirely sober when he arrived. He's set it aside for the moment -- that he's set it aside to notch another arrow to his bow may perhaps be concerning to other company. But this is not Other Company, and despite the uncharacteristically intense edge to his speech his hands seem steady enough. "-- planting the godsdamned practically extinct flower in the greenhouse there. I do not envy my successor his travails. And he is not the only one who has implied the world of hospitality -- for the ultra-rich, at least -- is suffering in my absence." He looses the arrow, which does, in fact, deign to hit the target -- if only just barely, wobbling at its edge far outside of any mark. Lucien huffs -- irritated, amused, it is hard to say. He's reaching for his glass as if this will improve his aim. "Just -- my gods I cannot imagine going back there." Clint lets out a whoop when Lucien's arrow lands, splashing himself with his slightly over-full glass. "Yeah! Nah, those fuckers? They don't deserve you. But they're not wrong about your skills." He is somewhat less steady with his own bow, when he takes it back up, the tip of his arrow weaving back and forth as he sights the target. "And you know, you don't have to go back to the Hellfire Club to flex those skills. Shit, you could do better than that. Besides…" The arrow sails far afield, and he cringes. "I don't know how much longer my liver can keep up with you like this." --- july 1. hellfire club guest suite. The view from this suite is beautiful, the park spreading out lush and green before them, but for a good while Lucien has not been much focused on the surroundings. He's sprawled, languid and indolent across some very luxurious bedsheets. "As entertaining as the idea is, I cannot even begin to imagine what opening my own establishment would cost." There is a faint murmur of amusement in his voice. "I will just have to settle for offering my hospitality --" His fingers trail lightly against uncannily black skin, and the subtle flush of pleasure his touch leaves in its wake is, really, not much discernible from afterglow. "In other ways." Kyinha gives a soft sigh, pressing up into Lucien's fingertips without any particular aim or urgency. "I think the literal amount matters less than your ability to convince investors there is a market for your hospitality." A fiery smile glows crooked like a volcanic fissure across the abyssal darkness of his face. "Me, I am already convinced. I may not know also how much that sort of project would cost here, but I do know it would be something extraordinary, in your hands." He rolls onto his side and props his head up on one arm, coming more fully alert again as he studies Lucien with unabashed interest. "And I know it is within my budget." --- july 29. evolve cafe. Flick. Flick. Flick-flick-flick. At one of the back tables of Evolve a glowing holographic display is spinning over and over above a large coffee cup and a barely-touched banh mi. Is bapping restlessly at his blueprint with his stylus helping Hive's thought process, right now? It's hard to say; he's been scowling at the thing for a cup and a half of coffee now, fussily adjusting a doorway here, a balcony there, then shifting it back the way it had been. He adds to his annotations -- between notes like FIXED BUILT-IN SEATING and <-- 19' - 9" --> and EXPOSED JOIST ABOVE are sprinkled in others -- BULLSHIT FUCKING BULKHEAD or DOES THIS DOORWAY SPARK JOY or TELL FUSSY MOTHERFUCKER I CAN'T MOVE THE FUCKING VIEW. When he reaches for his coffee cup and finds it empty, his scowl only deepens. "Fuck," he tells the coffee, or maybe the design. Beside him, half-slouched onto the table with his phone cupped in one hand and his chin propped up in the other, Matt seems determined to be relaxed for the both of them. Snatches of Ryan Black's "In Tone" wind whimsically in and out of his thoughts, and he's subtly leaning on his pleasure at watching the building take shape--however haltingly--beneath Hive's hands. "{It's a tricky balance to strike, no?}" This with a swell of fondness for both architect and absent client. "It must nod politely to tradition without bowing, adapt to a wide range of tastes yet maintain its own charms, and welcome guests without presuming to replace their homes. But you are striking it, darling." He switches Hive's mug for his own, mostly empty but not quite, as he mentally replays his last visit to the counter in silent offer of buying another round. "{Maybe let us zoom out a little, and look at this through the eyes of someone about to enter.}" --- october 23. hellfire club lounge. Down in the sumptuous basement lounge, Mirror is nominally working -- their laptop, open nearby to a half-written piece, at the top in bold: Everything we know about Le Bonne Entente, the hotel with which Broadway's Captain America is planning to bring a little luxury to Queens. They're currently distracted from the business of fluffing Lucien's new venture by the cornish hen that's just recently been delivered them, nibbling with a very pleased expression at the crisp edge of one wing. "-- will you be relieved when he's surrounded himself with our marks once more?" In their minds, an image of Lucien, at casual and elegant ease as he mingled with the politicians and power-brokers who pass regularly through the halls of the Club. This image shifts, transposes itself to an elegant new setting; no longer fading into the background as help but still mingling as owner, gleaning here and there the secrets so often dropped over too many glasses of wine and an indulgent meal. "If he'd stayed out of society altogether, you might have had to deign to hobnob with these bastards yourself." Even for a telepath it is often a tricky exercise gleaning the tone of Mirror's mind: the light veneer of amusement near-permanently draped over their thoughts that hovers just this side of mocking is there whether they are discussion political machinations or what they had for breakfast. "If?" Emma looked up from her own plate, poached salmon with capers and lemon, and caster gaze over her companion. "If was never the question. The reason why Lucien is so good at what he does is because he so enjoys it. I never doubted he would return." The White Queen stapled her fingers over her dish and looked nostalgic for a moment, enjoying the images the young mirror was projecting. "It will be good to see him less constrained by status." The thought soon sours as she pokes at her fish, lips pursing. "Our loss will be the city's gain - as for my deigning to deal with less pleasant people - I think I will have to start in the kitchen here. Someone is convinced that I ordered something low fat and flavorless." --- november 6. fencers club. This bout has not been going well for Lucien, but if that is discouraging him it is impossible to tell behind the blank mask he wears. His form is good, enough, but, far too conservative, he has been on the defensive consistently through his opponent's explosive attacks. "{-- did rather enjoy the work, but, ah, the clientele --}" Lucien is returning to his en garde line after the latest point, settling back into place as he lifts his saber. "{It will be pleasant, I think, to make a fresh start.}" Daiki's body language changes entirely with a blade in hand, and though he's quieter than usual, too, he emits a periodic "nn" to indicate he is attending. "{The Club selects for people who feel entitled to just about anything, but...}" He stalks slow and smooth back to his line. Turns with a dancer's grace, rolls his head, then one shoulder, then the other. "{It's a spectrum, isn't it? A fresh start is great, but sooner or later, you'll get clients who want to do awful things on the premises. And it may be harder to catch them, if they're not as liable to demand the staff's...assistance.}" "Mmm." It's quiet and thoughtful, as Lucien advances. "{Sooner or later.}" His agreement is soft, and comes just ahead of an uncharacteristically aggressive attack, pressing forward until his final lunge swashes in to land its touch just over Daiki's heart. "{And when they do, I will handle them.}" --- november 11 - december 20. through the grapevine. Daiki is perched on a wobbly stool in the garage, looking simultaneously incongruous yet entirely at home there in a sharp black three-piece suit with a sleek blue thermos in hand. "He's one of the most competent and focused men I know, but..." His shoulders shrug and mouth pulls slightly askew with reluctant skepticism. "Competence and focus only get you so far. Do you think it'll work?" * There is the old world elegance of The Dragon House with its ornate and traditional decor, there is the tailored and proper refinement of the Tong boss and his lieutenants, and then there's Ion: jeans and well-beaten cut, the smell of engine grease still on him and yet relaxed as can be. His current amiable-enthusiastic prattle in fluid but heavily accented Mandarin is punctuated with small waves of the chopsticks held between his fingers. "{-- my little sharkpups, they got this friend yeah?} I mean like I think actually like kind of with-benefits deal going on with Shane but I ain't ask anyway he a solid fucking samurai hangaround our club {and he in tight with this hotshot used to work down that swank-ass club for the illuminati up over by the park? Word is dude bounced from they club because} them rich fuckos they doing the most-the most and dude do not play that shit. {So his new fucking project, when I hear I think damn but Boss Chung gonna be interested, right, especially you gotta deal with them fucking Bonnannos, you appreciate the value of --}" * It's nearly two in the morning, but time moves differently in a casino and Caper's diehards are not fussed about the absence of daylight that never reaches down here anyway. At the poker tables, Hua Tian-yi's luck from earlier in the evening has long since evaporated, and the ever-increasing rate at which he's drinking to cope probably isn't helping his poker face, though it has improved his humor somewhat. "--neutral ground. Probably just some Hong Kong action movie-ass bullshit he's pulling for publicity." He drains the rest of his Johnny Walker and waves for another. "Call," he tells the redhead who's been winning all his money. As an afterthought, "My brother knows the guy, though. Says he's mad legit." * The waiters at Russian Tea Time are used to some heavy drinkers, but even now their server are double checking, with a hint of skepticism as he glances at the slender redhead, whether she really wants another vodka flight? That he's looking at her considerably more muscular companion when he asks this probably does not make Natasha's reply, in clipped Russian, any sweeter, but it does get the man to head off. "--Whatever else they think, people are talking. Excited. Guess a place to just relax without keeping a hand on your holster's got a pretty wide appeal, you know?" * Clint wears hearing aids when he wants to be underestimated, and some of the (other) self-styled pool sharks at Q-Tip have been gratifyingly predictable tonight. His current game is running long, but it's hard to tell whether that's because Carmen Pryde is proving a challenge or one of them is taking his time chatting up the other. "...and that could open up opportunities for people with certain specialties." He lines up and neatly sinks the 4, then looks up at his opponent. "But I would strongly advise you to clear it with Lucien Tessier." * "Everybody thinks you got something real special here, I mean everybody, and when you're handling money from folks like these -- well." Seated cross-legged in the back room of Omakase, Carmen jabs at the air with his chopsticks to emphasize his point. He's been extolling both the Entente and his suitability for a course or two. His CV rests on Lucien's side of the table, the string of letters and certifications after his name sitting above a long list of roles with various organizations in Chicago, many with different names but only a few differences in responsibilities, titles, and supervisors from place to place. "Sure, you can get any kid out of accounting school who can run payroll -- but with what you got here, your goals for the place, you might want to have someone who knows how to follow the money all the way back." Lucien has been giving Carmen's rhapsodizing evidently rapt attention as he picks his slow way through his food and several cups of tea. He is glancing down now, again, to the references listed on the CV -- and then to Carmen's name, his eyes hitching there for a long moment before he looks back up at the man himself. "What I have here seems to be taking on rather a life of its own," comes out in a wry amusement that in no way sounds displeased at the rapidly swelling reputation of the incipient hotel. "My goals here are simply to ensure that all our patrons can relax in comfort. I will, of course, be grateful for staff who understand what a comfort discretion can be." --- january 25. the bronx. Somewhere down a side alley, a set of stairs leads to a small, cozy, extraordinarily tidy bookstore that obstinately refuses to be found by those who seek to start trouble. The fact that Murphy – a man who looks like he's saddling up to buy trouble a drink – has managed to track this place down is nothing short of a miracle. He makes it three steps past the door before the clerk (a fastidious young man with dark, sleepless eyes, ruffled hair, and horn-rimmed glasses) peers up at him from behind a counter weighed down by numerous books: "Mr. Law, I presume? I received your voice messages – all twenty-eight of them." Murphy plucks a cigarette from his pocket and flips out his lighter. After a short series of clinks, a tongue of flame leaps toward the cigarette's tip – then proceeds to delicately slip around it, missing completely. Murphy gawks and tries again – again, the flame twists out of the way. "The fudge…?" he says, examining his lighter. Wait. What did he just say? "The – heck?" His scowl deepens; he looks up at the clerk: "The shih tzu is… this?" The clerk clears his throat and taps a sign on the display behind the counter: NO SMOKING. NO CURSING. NO REFUNDS. Murphy's eyebrows lurch up. Realization settles over him; his face splits into a grin. He reaches into his other pocket for the letter of introduction: "...right. So, my, uh – employer – sent me to talk to you about a job…" --- january 31. chez tessier. Clint takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, translucent lines of captioning lingering for a moment on the inside of the lenses before they clear. He squints and blinks at his laptop screen, eyes re-adjusting. "So this is really going to be the meat of the article, so, you know. Give me some juicy bits, if you feel inspired." He scrunches his brows and slides the glasses back on. "It's been a long fight, but now that Equity has won the right to reasonable COVID-19 protections among other theatre safety measures, how do you feel about taking up the shield and returning to the stage?" In a comfortably informal contrast to most in-person interviews he gives, Lucien has cosily ensconced himself across from Clint on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, propped up by a couple throw pillows and a permissively cuddly dog whose contributions to the interview this far have been to climb onto Clint's laptop in search of pets before she was exiled to the floor. "Would it be more helpful if I typed?" he is asking with a faint frown as Clint adjusts his glasses, although this thought is soon derailed into a wince, a forthright and fretful: "Goodness, just days till the Entente opens and there is so much yet to do, the timing on this couldn't possibly be worse. The last thing I need right now is --" He catches himself with a wider flutter of lashes, fingertips lightly pressing to his lips. "-- oh, dear gods, please do not put that online." --- february 2. le bonne entente. Pale columns extend upwards to form archways framing interlocking domes of dark silver-blue; matching tiles stretch across the floor, weaving complex geometric patterns. The interior evokes a sense of the sacred, but without the harsh austerity of a cathedral. Amidst all this dignified marble and elegantly arranged furniture, Murphy Law stands out like a dumpster-fire rolling through the Louvre. A familiar face (sleepless eyes, ruffled hair, horn-rimmed glasses) stands behind the front desk and patiently searches the ledger for Murphy's name. Murphy scowls, glowering to the left. A redhead shares a toast at the bar with some guy who's had enough drinks to be talked into wearing a goofy 'arrow-through-the-head' prop. Murphy glowers to the right. Lucien escorts a bald man seated in a wheelchair to a table with a tasteful floral centerpiece, including fresh Gibraltar campion to accentuate the arrangement. Murphy glowers up – at the extraordinary crystal chandelier hanging above, twice as big as Murphy's apartment. As the concierge directs him to the bar, Murphy – sullen, hands shoved deep into his pockets – shuffles forward. "Well, fuck me."