Logs:Visitors

Visitors
Dramatis Personae Fury, Lucien
In Absentia	2024-05-13 "Your sense of proportion pretty goddamn unsettling too." (followed by a prison transfer, part of avengers, assemble! plot.)
Location <NYC> Fury's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen & ???
An easy walk from Times Square, this is a two-bedroom penthouse apartment in a carefully restored historic building, its southern exposure affording an excellent view and letting in as much natural light as the season allows. It's sparsely decorated -- a scattering of framed historical photographs of the city on the pale gray walls -- but comfortably appointed in chic monochrome. The kitchen is definitely the focus of this residence, its black marble and steel kept scrupulously clean and well-provisioned. The master bedroom is capacious, with a queen sized bed and its own bath to boot, but to the observant eye it shows few signs of regular use. The smaller bedroom is set up as an office with a twin bed and entirely too much advanced computer equipment, its door usually kept closed when there are visitors. It's nearly midnight by the time Fury leaves his office -- not so very late for the City that Never Sleeps, but late indeed for the Theatre District on dark day. He looks about as dark as he looks on any day, dressed in black on black on black, but perhaps the larger-than-life superspy is human, after all, returning to his very normal human apartment after a long day at work. He hesitates just a fraction of a second in the entryway as he's closing the door behind himself, reaching under his duster to put away his keys. Once upon a time perhaps it would not have been quite so unusual, on a Monday, for Fury to have company waiting for him after a long day at work. But that was another time, not so very long ago and another lifetime all at once. Certainly tonight he has little enough reason to expect Lucien Tessier waiting on his couch. His hair is clipped shorter than he tends to like it, a plain chestnut shade, eyes remarkably unremarkable brown as well. He's in jeans (fitted Well Enough but untailored), a blue-grey button down, and he's helped himself to a glass of Scotch. He's tucked casually into the corner of the couch, evidently engaged in a first-edition copy of A Study in Scarlet. Lightly tanned, looking decently rested, he is to all appearances far less deceased than the papers have claimed. "Don't worry," sounds casual, too, in his familiar soft francophone-tinted cadence -- even if the wary flick of his eyes up from the page to attend Fury's movements closely is not, "I washed my hands." Fury's hand comes back out from under his coat absent the keys. What he's holding instead is a rather large semiautomatic pistol, which he levels at Lucien before he's even turned to properly face him. "Maybe this is some kinda sick joke, but I ain't laughin'." His voice is flat and cold. "You got ten seconds to explain who you are and what the fuck you're doing here." "Just an actor." Lucien's eyes are fixed on Fury's face when the man turns. "Quite an experienced one, moreover. If I were trying to play this part I might at least have attended better to hair and wardrobe." He's not looking at the large gun, his expression mostly neutral, but the slight widening of his eyes and stone-still posture belie his even tone. "Regrettably it's been another role entirely I've had lately. I apologize if the past months..." But here he's faltering. Maybe it's that his ten seconds are nearly up. Maybe it's something else entirely. One finger starts to trace slow and unconscious against the letters gleaming gold where they're debossed into the leather cover. He catches the motion swift, presses his finger just a little firmer against the book. Very soft, very steady, and very steadily continuing not to look at that pistol: "I did not know where else might be safe." At ten seconds Fury lowers his gun, but does not re-engage the safety, even if his thumb slides over to the switch out of wisely honed habit. "The hell role you been playing, then?" There's something of his usual gruff impatience in this, but it does not dull the cold, dangerous edge of his suspicion. "Tell me something only he would know. Won't help none if you're a telepath, but if you are I'm fucked anyway." He manages not to sound too much like someone who is already dedicating more of his attention to psionic self-defense then he probably should. "You got his double talk down pat, but there's all kinds of freaks out there, and some of them's actors, too. You gon' need to do better than pick up his book and drop his line." Not far from Lucien there's a strange kind of ripple that hangs for a moment like a heat-shimmer in the air between him and Fury. It's not hot, though, but it is distorting further -- slow at first and then, very suddenly, much faster. Around the men, space twists and tears. There's a swift and dizzy disorientation, a painful crush of pressure, and then -- -- well. It's hard to say. Fury's apartment is definitely gone. Around them the -- walls? Floor? It's hard to say; but it's an enclosed space of some kind that is considerably smaller than Fury's apartment. It looks kind of wet, kind of ribbed. Pretty squishy underfoot. Odd protrusions at intervals around them. It smells -- not great, like something not too far away has died. The walls are moving -- not rapid, a very slow but steady expansion. If there is a door it is hard to tell. The noise of the city has been replaced with soft scraping sounds and a nearby, quiet chittering. Lucien's brow furrows. He sets the book slightly to one side, finger returning to the absent trace against the lettering. His other hand is tightening around his glass. "Pardon," he ventures, careful, "but if only I know it, how --" The flicker cuts his words off short. His eyes have darted to it, his posture more tense, and then he's looking past the strange ripple to the distorted figure of Fury on the other side. He's gotten to his feet in a hurry, and started to hasten towards his erstwhile lover with a distinctly alarmed: "Director Fury, what --" when the world twists and changes. He's stumbled back against the wall when they reappear (splashing a little of the Scotch still in his grip down over his hand) and then just as quick, jerked away with a briefly twisting expression of disgust. His nose has wrinkled, shoulders tight, eyes ticking rapid and uncomprehending around these new surroundings. The fluctuations of chittering, of scraping, come with very faint twitches at his eyes, almost-wincing and then arresting the impulse. Kind of reflexive when his gaze lands on Fury he's taking a step forward, lifting his free hand towards the other man, but then it falls to his side. Presses tight against his leg. "{-- are you hurt.}" Fury raises his weapon again, aiming first at the wrinkle in space-time, and then at Lucien when he gets up. He lowers it hastily when things start getting...bendy, and he does not lose his footing when the Secondary Location snaps into place around them. He backs away reflexively when Lucien reaches for him, but doesn't raise his gun again. "The fuck did you--" comes in tandem with the other man's question, but then he just offers Lucien his left hand, wary and tense. "{You tell me.}" "Please. You know quite well I would have cleaned the ooze from the walls before bringing a guest --" Lucien is looking distastefully at the squishy floor, the subtly-expanding walls. "... wherever we are. Goodness, and I was just starting to think life had reached its peak of surreality. More fool, I, to tempt the gods' whimsy so." His eyes lower, considering Fury's outstretched hand for a quiet moment. He lifts his own away from his leg, slow but not tentative when he rests it in the older man's. "Of course you would have." Perhaps Fury decided that Lucien's indignation has earned him the benefit of the second person pronoun, or perhaps he just forgot, in his exasperation, to properly emphasize his (signature) suspicion. "But would a shapeshifter pretending to be you? Or an alien? Alien shapeshifter. This what I get for exempting contractors from the MAIN protocol." Despite having volunteered physical contact for a litmus test, Fury still tenses at Lucien's touch. He's flush with adrenaline that covers but does not cancel out his physical and mental exhaustion, or the muscles he pulled in his back staying upright through their transportation. His fear is plain enough, as is his anger, though there isn't nearly as much in the way of incredulity as this situation might warrant. He's staring aggressively at Lucien through this entire procedure, as if he expects to be able to see the younger man's power at work. Or, presumably, the alien shapeshifter's lack thereof. Lucien's eyes close, then flutter halfway open again, his breath hitching small and shaky at the contact. His hand closes just a touch more firmly around Fury's. For a moment there's a strong wash of feeling that partway accentuates the exhaustion, the ache, coiling higher together with anxiety that is nevertheless mingled strongly with an odd relief. But a breath later these things are pushed back, fierce and hard -- the aches sloughing off, the exhaustion washed back by a refreshing energy. The fear and anger stay much where they were. Lucien's eyes don't lift, but his quiet huff is mildly amused. "If we get out of here I am sure you can change your protocols to suit." Fury's breath catches a moment after Lucien's, at the abrupt obliteration of his exhaustion and (physical) pain. It's hard to tell how much of his relief is the result of Lucien's ministration and how much receiving the proof he'd sought by it, but his anger intensifies with it, too. His hand closes tight around Lucien's, too. "Son of a bitch," he whispers, hoarse. "I'm too old for this bullshit. To hell with changing the protocol, I'm of a mind to fire you on the spot for pulling this kinda stunt without consulting me." His huff is less quiet, less amused. But not wholly unamused. "You got a lot of explaining to do, Mister Tessier." Once more Lucien's eyes close. He lets his breath back out, just as shaky as it had hitched, but then returns to almost its regular cadence -- a little more shallow and careful than he might have in a room not filled with the smell of decay. He takes just a small step closer to Fury, a whisper of relief trickling in to the alleviating comfort of his touch. "I do apologize. If I had planned on being murdered I would --" A minute pause. "-- likely have kept you apprised, but the situation was --" His lips compress, his thumb brushing slow at the back of Fury's hand. When he opens his eyes again it's not to look at Fury, but past him to the ribbed and shifting walls. "-- I'm not actually certain whether it was more or less disturbing than this. On the one hand, I was a bit dead. On the other hand, so was my apartment. I do think those walls might be breathing." "It's been months!" Fury retorts, and there is real hurt buried somewhere under his cantankerous bluster. "Unless you been dead all this time, you could've --" He comes up short, eye wide. "Did you say murdered?!" Another hefty dose of adrenaline surges through his body. His anger isn't subsiding, but it is shifting in a way that Lucien's biokinesis can't meaningfully parse without additional context. "Goddamnit, I knew we should have looked into it more thoroughly. Frankly I'm surprised you ain't had a plan for surviving your own murder." Something in the way he says this suggests Fury has several such plans, himself. "Anyhow, I reckon the whole thing -- whatever it is -- might be breathing. Sure is some kind of organic technology. I'd bet it ain't from this planet, but who knows, there's -- folks on Earth can do all kinds of crazy shit." He draws Lucien closer, then doesn't seem to know what to do with him once he's let go in order to -- awkwardly, his other hand still holding the gun -- fish his phone from a pocket of his coat. "I'm activating the Hostile Extraterrestrial Abduction Defense protocol," he explains as he clicks hardware buttons on the side in a specific pattern clearly designed for ease of entering covertly. "Just wish I'd packed a bigger gun." The distant scratching and chittering is getting less distant. There's a low vibration that hums through the floors and walls, and then part of the wall parts, cracking open with a wet squelching noise. In the doorway is an enormous insectoid creature, towering several feet above Fury and Lucien both. The carapace covering its body is a drab brown, its body many-legged with a pair of long tentacle-forelimbs. A pair of semi-translucent wings thrums behind its back. The head that looks down at the men is flat and triangular, a huge mouth extremely full of very sharp teeth, enormous red eyes with a strange black marking like a sigil between them. Its head is turning one way, then another. Its wings click faster. Something chitters in their minds, soft and whispering and weighted like a million-million minds all rustling together. The mental presence is terrified, and ravenous, but these seem almost like a background fact -- more immediately present is something very like disappointment. It's stretching a tentacle out in the direction of its unwilling guests. "Murdered, yes. I got past it, but the experience was a touch unsettling." Lucien draws closer; his head drops for just a brief moment to Fury's shoulder when the older man drops his hand. The quiet breath he exhales is almost a laugh, and there's a flush, warm and affectionate and somewhat relieved, that washes out where his skin brushes at the older man's neck. "I wanted to reach out, I simply did not know if --" It's the chittering that pulls him sharp away, tenser all in an instant and bracing when the room(?) begins to thrum. Not truly having any idea where the noise is coming from, he's started somewhat instinctively to shift himself more back-to-back with Fury, but this enterprise freezes at the cracking-squelching opening. His eyes have gone very, very wide at the creature that appears, and he's gone quite still. "Your sense of proportion pretty goddamn unsettling too," Fury has finally settled into something almost like his usual performative grousing, "but I'm glad that you got past it." He drops the phone back into his pocket and settles his hand kind of gingerly on Lucien's shoulder. "Next time you see fit to get yourself murdered, you come to me first. I know how to deal with shit like --" Like whatever is chittering toward them, perhaps? As soon as the door-sphincter starts to open, he shifts himself between it and Lucien, raising his gun to point at the ceiling instead, and waits. For all the squelching undulations and the putrid odor of their surroundings, it's the touch of the alien's mind(s?) that twists his face with disgust. For all that, he doesn't actually level his gun at their captor until it reaches for them. "Stay back," he warns the creature, voice remarkably steady for a man in his current predicament. "You got two choices that won't get you shot: send us back where we came from, or..." He sighs, quiet and resigned. "...take me to your leader." Lucien is grimacing, taking a small step just a little more behind Fury (and further from The Tentacle) when he finds himself able to move again. He draws in a breath -- immediately regrets it -- and glances to Fury like he is about to say something. Probably glib. Instead, though, he's giving an also somewhat resigned look to the creature, and quickly knocking back the remainder of his Scotch.