ArchivedLogs:Pain Relief

Pain Relief
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Lucien
In Absentia	2013-05-17 ?!?!
Location <NYC> Guerrilla Garden
This abandoned lot isn't much to look at right now. Next door to a construction site and ringed by a tall, rusting chainlink fence, the rumble of large machinery is a constant disruption. Equally rusty signs have been affixed to the fence warning passersby to KEEP OUT, that this is PRIVATE PROPERTY. Weeds are as plentiful as chunks of broken concrete but there is surprisingly little garbage to be found and what does appear seems to disappear just as quickly. Here and there stacks of scavenged truck tires have been filled with dark soil and some enterprising soul has begun to create raised beds to the rear of the lot using splintery wood salvaged from packing crates. It's late enough in the season that even though it's well into evening it's still light out. There is little surreptitious about Lucien pulling open the partially-chained fence and slipping inside; he's not really /trying/ to be stealthy, in broad daylight. He doesn't really look /inclined/ towards stealth; he's well-dressed, right now, in a sleek tailored suit, dove-grey, sans tie, neatly polished dress shoes. There's a paper coffee cup in his hands that reads Montague's on it, though it smells of tea and not coffee. He drifts into the garden slowly, crouching to examine some of the plants. He is /frowning/ at the tops of a radish. Murphy Law is a sight better than he was yesterday. That's because today, he's trying to play /investigator/. That means a shower. It means a shave. It means a clean coat, shirt, and tie; it also means a right and proper looking arm-brace cane instead of a crutch - disguising the injury underneath his leg. The bandage around his hand is gone, now; replaced with a skin-toned patch over his palm. When Lucien enters the garden, he probably doesn't notice Murphy there. Probably because Murphy isn't trying to be noticed. He's just finishing up - having walked, step by slow, careful step - across the whole perimeter of the garden. Memorizing everything he sees. Absorbing the details. He now stands beside one of the construction posts, leaning, holding a coffee of his own in his free hand - other hand clutching the arm-brace cane. When Lucien crouches in front of those radishes... Murphy steps out. "Hey." It's a gentle greeting. For Murphy, at least. He's trying, /really/ hard, not to blow any of his very tentative leads. Not that some guy blundering into a guerilla garden is any sort of lead. But who the fuck knows. "Do you like radishes?" This is what Lucien offers as greeting. Probably he did not notice Murphy there, but it's hard to /tell/ if he is surprised or not. He still just frowns at the plant, and takes a slow sip of his tea. He does look up, but it's quick, a cataloguing flick of a glance before he just looks back to the plant. Reaches a hand out, to brush against its leaves. "Got nothin' against them," is Murphy's answer. The coffee rises up. Ssssip. And he just, watches for a while. Trying to size Lucien up. "You help put this garden together?" Soft. Polite, almost. Poke, poke. The chances of Lucien knowing something are pretty slim, by Murphy's estimation; still. "An interest in horticulture, perhaps?" Lucien unearths the radish. It is quite ripe. He tips his gaze up, tips his hand out. Offering the radish to Murphy. "There is little else ready for harvest, at the moment." Murphy tromps forward, moving toward Lucien. The radish is regarded with... interest. Sort of a narrow-eyed, 'is-this-important?' look. He shifts the coffee to the hand that grips the brace, taking the tuber in-hand. As if to give it a brief weigh. "Not much for gardens," he confesses. "Too much patience. Not good with patience." Fingers close around the radish, curling tight. In for a penny, in for a buck... "I'm looking for somebody. Some/bodies/," he corrects. "Some of them were putting these gardens together. Went missing." The radish is just a radish. Small. Earthy, at the moment. Purplish. Lucien rises, uncurling to get to his feet and take another sip of his tea. "/Are/ you." His next sip of tea comes with a thoughtful hum. He leaves the cup rested against his lips, his green eyes slowly drifting down Murphy and then back up. They linger for a moment on the brace. Then return to his eyes. "I did not plant these crops. Were they friends of yours?" "No." The answer is automatic. Murphy's inspecting the radish, now. Nose wrinkling. His ever-present scowl intensifying on it. "But I know one of them. Helped me, once." The radish is then - slipped into a pocket. As if it were evidence. His eyes are back on Lucien's. "Others, too. Some of them kids." His stare... deepens. Same look he gave the radish. Lucien's eyes have not wavered this whole time. It's a long and careful steadiness and its unmoving intesity is, perhaps, mitigated by the otherwise quiet cast to his expression. Calm. Dispassionate. A blank cool nothingness to take Murphy's scowl and let it wash over. "Kids," he echoes, absently. "That sounds tragic." Not that he sounds particularly upset. He takes another sip of tea. "There are all kinds of terrible people in this city. Who do you imagine would have --" He glances down at the garden. "Perhaps someone with a distaste for radishes." Snkkt. Murphy's nose flinches. Suppressing a snicker. "Not a lot of leads," he tells him, and now, he's sweeping his eyes over the garden. The look is tired; maybe even exhausted. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut. "In fact, I'll tell you just how scarce my leads /are/: I'm asking some guy I found wandering by what /might/ be a crime-scene if he knows anything." Then, he releases his nose; the coffee slips from his braced hand to his free hand. He takes a sip. "You're a pretty smooth mother-fucker. Actor?" This question drops Lucien's gaze from Murphy, finally; there's a twitch-jump of muscle in his temple, though this is the only change to his expression. "Something like that," he says mildly. "You are putting a lot of effort into a hunt for someone who helped you -- once." His quietly accented words are directed down into his tea. "What happened to your leg?" The twitch-jump is noticed. Even if it's just a change of expression. Murphy's coffee halts half-way to his mouth as he watches it. "I am," he agrees. "I got other reasons. They'd probably bore you." The coffee goes back up. Sssip. The question about his leg... "I asked one too many questions. It'll heal up, though." Then: "Lawyer? Mmn. Or a dealer." "If I were not interested," Lucien says mildly, "I would not have asked." His lips curl up at their corners, just a little. His cup of tea lowers. "You. Asked one to many questions. Colour me surprised." See his surprised face? It looks exactly like the impassive one he was just wearing. "Everyone is dealing /something/." He turns back towards the garden bed, though he is watching Murphy rather than it, out of the corner of his eye. "So why," he asks, "all this effort for --" His gaze lowers to the plastic lid of his tea. "-- a group of mutants nobody cares about?" Murphy's eyes narrow. Like sharp little knives. And suddenly, his grip on that arm-brace? Is tight. /Iron/ tight. "Mutants," Murphy repeats, and there's an /ire/ to that word. "I never said anything about mutants." Those eyes become no more than slits. "And you /know/ I didn't. You're interrogating /me/." "I know you didn't. I did." Lucien watches Murphy's fingers. Watches Murphy's eyes. "What are you dealing?" Murphy's teeth slam down; his knuckles are bone-white around that handle. "Pain." Murphy's grip slackens on the brace. Anger shifts to suspicion, mingling with a vicious curiosity. "Why are you here?" "Really." This bares Lucien's teeth, just a slim-sliver flash of a very quick-thin smile. "Pity. I'm not buying any of that today." His eyes drop to Murphy's fingers again, the white knuckles. His clenched teeth. "Though you seem like you might be a frequent customer. Perhaps I just like --" He is still watching Murphy's fingers. His own drum against the side of his cup. "Radishes." He takes another sip. "I was here to see if they had been harvested yet." That carefully maintained facade of bare minimum civility Murphy has been projecting shows signs of crumbling; the scowl deepens to its full natural measure. There is a /tenseness/ to the man, now. A much deeper tension than before. "I fucking hate enigmatic mother-fuckers," he tells him. "You were here. To see if they'd been harvested yet. Why do you /care/?" Then, perhaps before Lucien can even answer, he takes a step forward and continues: "Maybe. You're suffering from a guilty conscience." Lucien doesn't take a step back. He watches Murphy's approach. Sips at his tea. "Do I look guilty to you? Why," he might be asking the same question as Murphy but he asks it with a good deal less outward tension. Just a quiet mild tone, that same steady look, "do /you/ care?" "You look like a man who knows how /not/ to look guilty," Murphy growls back. He leans heavily on that brace; it's clear he needs it to walk. So if he's going to make a lunge for Lucien - it's probably not going to be a very effective one. But he also looks like the sort of guy who might give it a try anyway. "Because I /remember/ their faces. Because my only friend is missing. Because it /pisses people off/. Because I can't /forget/ people. Because my brain is fucking /broken/. Now tell me what fucking words I need to shove into your fucking face to get you to spill your fucking guts you slippery. Shit-talking. Pretty-boy. /Fuck/." Out of all this, what catches Lucien's attention is: "What is wrong with your brain?" His head tilts, slightly, to one side. "-- Your only friend." He seems more curious than pitying, on this. He glances from Murphy to the garden. Back to Murphy. His hand tightens around his cup. His next sip is slow. "I can see why. You have a /way/ with people. Which one. Is your friend?" The question about Murphy's brain just seems to throw him off. Like he's been hit with a curve-ball. "...what?" His eyes scrunch; his anger intensifies, then dissolves in a flood of confusion. "I don't -- it's /fucked up/, alright. I don't forget things." Murphy's eyes drop to Lucien's cup of hot tea. Like that might be the only thing /stopping/ Murphy from lunging. Then back up to his face. "He ain't with them. The garden people." Murphy's anger is rapidly being overcome with bafflement. "Jim Morgan. He's - looking for a missing kid. Disappeared. Breadcrumbs brought me here. Related. For fuck's sake. How the /fuck/," Murphy asks him, coffee moving from one hand back to the one with the brace, his now free hand reaching to /pinch/ the bridge of his nose. "Have you gotten this much information out of me without telling me a goddamn fucking /thing/?" "I have a way with people," Lucien answers with a faint thread of amusement. He takes a step towards Murphy. It's not a particularly threatening step. He's lifting his free hand, holding it out to Murphy, palm up. "Give me your hand," comes before a slight pause, a final small admission of: "I know Jim Morgan. I did not know he was missing." Murphy's hand drops to his side. He doesn't offer it for Lucien's. At the mention of him knowing Jim Morgan, his eyebrow spasms. "Give me your last name," he says, "and I'll give you my hand." Murphy's eyes narrow at the last name. "Tessier," he repeats, as if making sure he got it right. And then he lifts his hand up to Lucien's. Taking it in his rough, calloused grip. Murphy's brain is like a hornet's nest. Constantly /buzzing/. The amount of information - of /knowledge/ - is overwhelming. So much that it becomes an unmanageable noise; just /static/, unintelligible and useless. It's also /calcified/; the underlying neurology is likable to a crystal - a crystal that extends outward, not clarifying so much as /solidifying/ in a state that never changes - only expands. At this very moment, the word 'Tessier' is ping-ponging through that crystal - neurons firing. Searching. Somehow navigating that overwhelming volume of information - pulling up addresses. Names. Phone numbers. Dismissing the ones that don't fit the search criteria. With this calcification, there is a sense of extraordinarily overwhelming neurological pain. A sort of pain for which there is very little parallel; the closest would be the agony of chalks-on-nailboards. A chronic, ongoing psychic /screech/. Lucien tenses, at the contact. Pretty much immediately, as /his/ mind touches Murphy's, tries to align itself with Murphy's and finds that an /extraordinarily/ unpleasant task. The paper cup in his other hand crumples in his sudden clenched fist. Thankfully it is empty enough this does not so much spill tea everywhere as just slosh a little of it down over his fingers. His fingers curl firmly around Murphy's. There's a gritted-teethed moment of delay as he just /steels/ himself against this onslaught, and then finally his powers trickle back, seeping their way through the torrent of information they are being relayed. There isn't much change, at first. Slow change, anyway. Tamping down that noise here, quieting that buzzing there. Slicing its way through to memory-centers to wrap around them, not so much turning /off/ as padding, insulating the rest of Murphy brain from that constant deluge of Too Much Noise. His teeth clench, that same muscle twitching by his temple. His expression has shifted away from calm for really the first time this exchange, hardening instead to something clearly pained. But not letting /go/. The psychic screech is a product of that crystallization; as Murphy learns more, the keening grows louder. And Murphy never forgets. Which means the pain is always /increasing/. What's worse still: Murphy doesn't just remember things he experiences. He remembers the act of remembering itself; contained within that extending crystal are memories of memories of memories - recursions so deeply nested that no end is in immediate sight. And unlike an infinitely recursive image, no resolution is lost; each 'copy' possesses the granularity of the original. When Lucien splits into the depths of Murphy's brain - begins sheathing them in padding that seems to soften the edges, smothering the noise to a low throb - the screeching does not stop. But it does something it has never done before: It /lessens/. The result is immediate - Murphy's eyes widen. His entire body lurches back - for a second, he mistakes the absence for pain as /more/ pain. But then, he realizes what's happening - and produces a sharp, low hiss. Not of discomfort - but of /relief/. He drops the coffee cup. His eyes droop. "How," Murphy rumbles, dazed and swaying, "are you doing that." "Give me," Lucien says this slow and sort of through his teeth, they don't show any intent to unclench any time soon, "a moment, and I will tell you." Maybe a moment. Maybe several moments. His grip stays firm through Murphy's lurching. His grip on Murphy's /hand/, at any rate; he's dropped his tea (what remains of it) to the ground. He flicks droplets of spilled tea from his fingers in a quick-sharp motion. And continues his work, slow and invisible but more obvious in Murphy's far overclocked brain than it would be in most people's. Filing down the edges of that crystal, shielding the whole thing in enveloping layers of quiet. "How long," he finally wants to know, once he has worked this into enough quiet to at least find his voice again. Still a little strained. Still gritting his teeth. "Have you lived like this?" "B-be careful," Murphy mutters, sounding almost child-like. "It -- if you take too much at once -- too much. Information. Breaks minds..." The warning comes a little late; Lucien's already in the thick of it. But the fact that he does not deal with abstractions of the mind -- but rather their underlying neurochemistry -- may be why Murphy's brain /isn't/ killing him. At this point, it's a struggle for Murphy to even stand. The sheer relief flooding him; it's making his knees buckle. His eyes are glazed, distant; his jaw is slackening. He's just staring at Lucien, agape. When he asks the question, it takes several seconds for him to even form an answer: "Eleven years, thirty-six days, three hours, five minutes, eight seconds. Oh my God." His voice quakes. "It doesn't. Hurt." "I am no telepath," Lucien answers in response to Murphy's caution: "My mind is rather harder to break." His firm grip pulls /in/, slightly, encouraging Murphy closer -- if only so that his free hand can move to the man's other elbow, supportive. He lowers, though, /easing/ Murphy down towards kneeling rather than just letting his knees buckle under him. Lucien doesn't kneel. Gods only know how much this suit cost. Probably too much for grass stains. He does crouch, though, still slowly just -- smoothing. Tucking. Quieting. And then, with the initial /shock/ of the pain past -- exploring. This part is less noticeable, no concrete touch, just a curious thoughtful /tracing/ along the too-dense too-built up pathways in Murphy's brain. Examining them with deep curiosity even as he continues sequestering them tidily away. "That is a long time. A whole decade to grow --" Lucien sounds /appreciative/ of -- well, Murphy's pain, really. Quietly awed. "But it really should come with an off switch." Murphy goes down. Fast. Down, down, /down/. If he's appreciative of Lucien's support, he's too dazed to show it; he takes it without thought, like a man seizing hold of a life preserver as he struggles not to sink. "Nnnghhh," he exhales in response, still - confused. Struggling to just get /ahold/ of himself. The crystalline structure in Murphy's brain is difficult to unfold; even a single memory is so deeply /vivid/ that it boggles the mind. Smell, touch, taste, vision, sound. Even Murphy's thoughts at the time. Even his thoughts later on, when he recalled the memory. All packed tight, densely nested and coiled in on themselves, until they become a bundle of memories so /rich/ with information that they become psychically toxic. And there are over a decade's worth of them. Stranger still, Murphy's mind is equipped to search and unpack them with dazzling speed - though not without extraordinary pain. Searching his memories creates new memories - which only makes the problem /worse/. Murphy shudders. But he is quickly regaining - control. He's scowling again, but there's no force to it; it's more a habit than an expression of his state of mind. He reaches up to touch Lucien's shoulder with his other hand, releasing the cane - for now. "Shit," he groans. "No off-switch. I forgot what this feels like. Only thing I think I /have/ forgotten." He grimaces. "It's still there. The pain. I feel it. But you... you're. Knocking it back. A little. A lot. I don't even know. ...thank you. Fuck. /Fuck/." He releases Lucien's shoulder, squeezing at the bridge of his nose. "Didn't think. Even possible." The corners of Lucien's mouth twitch upwards. He looks down at their hands. "Possible. There is quite a lot that is /possible/, these days. I have seen people capable of all sorts of things that should not -- be possible." And then a moment of silence. Lucien squeezes Murphy's hand, now kind of just -- watching. Exploring. His tiny smile remains. "I have seen many minds. None before like yours. It is -- a fascinating puzzle." He still doesn't let go of Murphy's hand. Still quietly silently probing. Still carefully padding, smoothing, quieting. Now that the initial bulk of at least somewhat mitigating the /cause/ is tackled he is cosmetically dealing with /symptoms/, too; a trickle of something calm-soothing, pleasantly happy, ghosting its way in to Murphy's convoluted brain chemistry. "There is always an off-switch. Sometimes it just takes -- a good deal of /work/ to access." "Fascinating. /Fascinating/," Murphy repeats, choking back a laugh. "That ain't the word I would use. But I guess. I've never been on the outside, looking /in/. This is... can't even put in words. How much I needed -- this. Relief." He makes a ragged, wheezy sigh; the hand that grips Lucien's /squeezes/ - forcefully - as if to hold him there, as the trickle of soft, fluffy happiness begins to slip into his brain, filling up the spaces between the jagged edges of that prickly mind. But his grip soon slackens. Murphy's eyes come into focus, watching Lucien's face, now. Closely. Something sharp creeping back in there. Not hostile, but - /aware/. Guarded. "...you're just doing this because you find it /interesting/," he says. It's not an accusation, so much as. An observation. "Fuck if I'm going to complain. But you /are/ a slippery mother-fucker." "You have so little faith," Lucien says, quietly amused, "in the kindness of strangers." Murphy's grip may slacken but Lucien's doesn't -- it isn't hard or restrictive, not seeking to restrain or control. But it's steady, as Lucien continues to explore. To smoothe. To trickle faint wisps of calm into that pricklyjagged mind. Mostly just to continue quieting its calcified crystal of pain, though. "I have known you all of ten minutes. As incredibly pleasant and charming as those ten minutes have /been/, I cannot imagine what other reason I would have," Lucien admits easily, "to offer relief past my own self-interest. Minds fascinate me. So many of them, though, feel so much the same. Yours is --" He tips his gaze up to the sky. Back to Murphy. "A challenge." Probably quite literally -- the man is /paler/ than he had been, a little wan, a little /shaky/. His other hand is braced with fingers pressed against the ground, as if for support. The storm of pain in Murphy's head continues to quiet; the effect is - decreasing in its potency, but even the faintest trickle of additional relief is still having a visible effect on him. The tenseness in his face has vanished; the hunch of his shoulders has slackened. Before, every inch of the man gave off signals of wanting to do violence. Now? He has the look of a man lazily debating between a pleasant shower or an afternoon nap. "I don't have faith in /people/," Murphy replies. "Never had that luxury. People forget so much. The terrible things they've done. The terrible things that have been done to them. They /have/ to." There's a tremble to his voice, now; a way these words rush out all at once - as if this were an act of confession. Something he doesn't /talk/ about. "My fiance -- my family. Couldn't explain to them -- do you know what it's like, to remember a terrible thing you did, or a terrible thing that's been done to you -- and no one else remembers? No one else /cares/? It's like that for. Almost everything. I..." He just, sighs. With exhaustion. "...challenge. Yeah. You're--god fucking /damn/ it," Murphy groans, rubbing at his nose again. "Do you -- can I -- nngh /fuck/. Can you do this... as a regular thing? I -- could -- would -- pa--" Something seems to flicker over his eyes, then. As if he's just made a connection. "Oh. /Oh/. Fucking -- /duh/," he says, with an edge of amusement. "You're a hooker." For a moment something closes off in Lucien's face, not its previous calm quiet but a /shuttering/ that just leaves it wooden-blank. Just a moment. And then he smiles, a small quick twitch that comes in time with a quiet breath of almost-laughter. "I -- cannot say I know that anywhere near as well as you do. It does sound rather tiring." He says this without pity so much as absent contemplation. The small twitch of smile curls wider. This time his exhalation actually is a laugh. "I told you," he says, lightly, "I have a way with people." He squeezes Murphy's hand and then finally releases it, leaving him with a last quiet /surge/ of -- cooling-numbing-soothing to blunt the edges of pain into something quieter. The effect does not fade, just yet, and Lucien drops his own hand to his knees. His other presses more heavily to the ground; he is quiet, at first, drawing in a slow steadying breath as his eyes close. "But. Yes. We could work out a regular arrangement, if you wish." "Tiring. Yeah. But," Murphy adds, still rubbing - rub, rub, rub -- at his nose. Does he see that brief flicker over Lucien's face? Perhaps. Murphy's eyes /are/ on Lucien's. Visibly, he doesn't respond; there is, however, a faint /crackle/ of thought in his mind. "But, it just. Makes -- talking. Having friends. Caring. /Connections/. Hard." Murphy is so /reluctant/ to release that hand. But, he does not fight Lucien on it. That final blast of chilling numbness manages to get a soft, ssusurus groan; his eyes briefly flutter beneath the weight of it. And then... release. Murphy shudders. Shakes his head. Like trying to throw something off. Then, he reaches for his cane, seizing hold of it. But instead of dragging himself to his feet... he just leans back. Hands spread out behind him. Like he's /lounging/ here, in the garden. "Way with people," Murphy agrees, and he's - actually /smiling/. "/Something/ like an actor. Should have - mmn. Dealer was close," he says, "though I was thinking drugs. I guess what you do. Is kind of a drug. I -- mmmn. Arrangement. Yes. /God/ yes. I -- /fuck/, you are. Basically my /crack/ dealer, here. I shouldn't -- /tell/ you that, should I. But it's pretty fucking obvious." And then, because even when he's not /hurting/, Murphy is slow to give up a scent: "You knew them. The ones who planted this garden. Can you -- do you know anything. /Useful/? To finding them. I'm a private investigator," he says, almost wistfully. Like he's almost /reconsidering/ if that's true. But then, with a bit more grit: "There's a lot of lives at stake." "There are many things in life," Lucien's voice is slow and thoughtful, his gaze slipping away to the garden, "that make connections hard." He is settling down slowly, /screw/ the grass, now, both hands braced against the ground and his forearms faintly trembling with the apparent strain of holding himself up. His head tips back. His eyes close. "What I do can be every kind of drug," he murmurs, "but I tend to offer the one people seem to crave most." His fingers are pressing down hard against the earth. Perhaps still just by way of support. The swallow that rolls down his throat is slow. "I knew them." This is softer. And, softer still: "-- I think I can find them." Though there is a looseness to him - almost an indulgent /laziness/ to the way he just, leans back - Murphy is still watching Lucien. Albeit through lidded, softer eyes. But he sees the way his throat flexes on that swallow. Murphy knows a tell when he sees it. And so... "...you ain't good with connections either, are you. Or, no. Maybe you just don't -- /bother/. But," he adds, and Murphy's tone has an unusual softness to it, "you bothered. With them. Or maybe just one of them." Even softer, now: "Okay. But not alone." "I am a whore," Lucien says lightly, "my entire profession is about making connections." His head rolls, slow and lazy as he tips it downward to rest chin against chest so that he can look over at Murphy. There's a drawn-out moment of contemplation, green eyes fixing on the other man, but then: "Have you ever," he wants to know, "been to a fight?" His lips twitch. He looks at the cane. Back to Murphy's face. "The kind with tickets. In a ring." "So it is," Murphy agrees, his tone lethargically casual. "But whores are paid to /act/ like they give a shit. Not actually give a shit. Not that whores /can't/ give a shit. But you don't strike me as the type." A little harder. "And yet here you are. Giving a shit. There's a story there." The mention of a fight - tickets - at first, Murphy mistakes this for some bizarre turn in the conversation. "Used to box," he says, but then - his eyes flicker with recognition. Widening. "...oh. Oh, /fuck/." Lucien's eyes slip half-closed, his turn now to watch Murphy with deceptively lazy-lidded eyes. "Everyone has a story." Still watching. Quiet. Waiting for that moment of -- "Ah." His head tips slightly, as if in confirmation. "You have heard, then?" "Everyone has a story," Murphy agrees, his voice now -- bitter-hard. A little more tensed. "But most of them are ones I've heard before. Yeah. Thought it was a bullshit rumor. Talk about - releasing them against one another. Like dogs. Mmmn." That faint pleasurable haze he's in is starting to fade. Pain, ever-so-slowly, creeping back in through the corners. It's subtle, but Murphy feels it. Lucien's words give it a harsher edge. "One of the kids had a GPS watch. His friends tracked it to the police station." "Police station," Lucien murmurs this quiet and thoughtful. "Do you think the child was involved in some sort of crime? There are any number of groups with -- unsavory ties around the city who might potentially be involved in a venture of this sort." He is slowly lifting one hand away from its hard brace against the ground. His fingers curl in towards his palm, his knuckles rubbing at his temple. "Have they /spoken/ to the police about this? Missing mutants are --" His smile is thin. "Not. Generally. Their highest priority. But perhaps with a bit of leaning --" His hand drops from his temple, hovering for a moment palm-upwards before falling back to the ground. "That is difficult. I -- enjoy my profession solely because people /fascinate/ me. Even the pettiest of them have their own nuances that -- mmm. But. If things to you are so rarely new --" His gaze tips back towards the sky. "It is no rumour. I plan to attend one. Invites, though, are -- in short supply. But I do," he says this with a small private smile, "have a way with people." "Involved - maybe. Kid's a bit of a moron. Thinks he's a superhero. Runs around with a mask, saving people from fires," Murphy explains. "They talked to the cops. They're squatting on a bunch of missing mutant cases. Not surprising. Mmm. My /best/ guess," Murphy admits, "is that you're dealing with a few corrupt cops. Arresting mutants. Instead of taking them down to the precinct, they're selling them, maybe. Would be a sweet deal. They can check your records, see how likely you are to be missed. Know where to look to find he ones who /won't/ be missed. Kid's friends are going to check the evidence sign-in sheet, see who turned in the watch. They got somebody who can, mmmn. Listen," Murphy adds, reaching a finger to tap the side of his temple. "People stopped fascinating me a long time ago," Murphy admits, and this comes a little slower. "Because the story is - so often, the same. Same ideas. Same problems. Same mistakes. But it isn't, really. It just - /looks/ the same, after a while." Murphy's brow furrows, then, at Lucien's next words. And... "I don't. You think you can manage two?" Murphy's nostrils flare. "Can memorize the layout. Faces. Details. That, and," he gestures at Lucien, "you shouldn't go in there alone." "It looks the same," Lucien agrees, "they almost all look the same. But the fun lies in finding where they are not. It takes some work, sometimes. Ferreting out those details. Some people are more a challenge than others." He glances over somewhat sadly at his crumpled spilled coffee cup, and stretches out a hand with a grimace to pluck it off the ground. There's a buried note of amusement in his quiet voice, colouring his accented syllables a little bit more warmly. "You want to be my date? I am touched. I do not even yet know your name." "The /police/." His fingers drum in one quick roll against the crumpled cup. "That -- does make things /interesting/, doesn't it?" This comes with a slight drawing-back of his lips, a thin sharp smile. "What is the standard sentence for assaulting a police officer?" "/Standard/?" Murphy replies. He's a little slower to get to his feet, pushing himself up with the cane. "If you're damn lucky, few months of eating food through a tube. Followed by a max of ten years. Otherwise? Death. Cops might not be involved beyond providing some street muscle. /Hope/ they aren't involved," Murphy adds, and now he's grimacing as he rises, dusting off his pants with his free hand. Scuff, scuff. "If it's /cops/ running this show? We're pretty much fucked." Murphy's hand dips into his coat, fishing. Pulling out a card. Battered edges. Neatly printed name: MURPHY LAW. Private Investigator. Phone number, fax. "You're going to be in a room full of people screaming for mutant blood," he tells him, voice strikingly-soft. "Maybe you're used to that. But what if they put someone you know in that cage? Someone you actually give a /shit/ about. What if you end up having to stand by and watch them /die/?" He pauses, before adding: "You need someone there who's on your side." Holding out the card. Lucien is slow, too. Kind of half pushing himself up, with a slight grimace for the aborted attempt. He exhales a long slow breath, his thin smile not fading although there is little /humour/ to it. "Running the show. That -- would make for --" His jaw tightens. His eyes close, momentarily. "Well. It would require. Some finesse in approaching it." He takes the card from Murphy, eyebrows lifting at the name on it. He slips it into an inside pocket of his jacket, and for a moment the drop of his hand back to the earth is heavy. Tired. It does not carry through to his mild tone as he answers: "If it comes to that --" His eyes lift to Murphy. "I am -- an excellent actor. Are you?" "No." Flat. Easy. Again, automatic. Murphy's eyes are locked on Lucien's. "But I've watched people I care about die in front of me. I know how it feels. And I know what not to do." And then. Murphy's face gives an unusual... twitch. And before he can even think twice about it, he's moving forward - with that large, thick, powerful arm - and just sweeping it down to try and /hug/ Lucien. WHUMP. "Jesus fucking Christ," Murphy growls, as he attempts this. "What the fuck have you /done/ to me." Lucien has been getting up! Slowly. But steadily. But then he is faced with sudden incoming /growl/hug and he freezes, rocking back down into a crouch with a startled huff. "{Jesus fucking Christ}," his echo is in swift and startled French. His hand comes up reflexively to curl against that arm and -- for the briefest of moments there is a /jolt/ a sharp twinge of pain that lances flicker-quick through the other man. It fades almost as soon as it has come, replaced instead by a rush of calm-warm that eases away the pain and /then/ some. He doesn't return the hug. His hand stays clamped against Murphy's arm, /using/ the other man to lever himself the rest of the way to his feet. His smile returns, quick-small. "Surprised you." Pain is something Murphy's all too familiar with; that brief jolt has a decade's worth of anguish with which to compete. It scarcely flickers on Murphy's radar - a vague twitch of the mouth, maybe a spasm of the muscle in that arm that squeezes. When that flood of relief comes trailing after, Murphy only grunts. Approval? Acknowledgement? Thanks? "/Reminded/ me," Murphy agrees, releasing once Lucien's on his feet, stepping back. Weight shifting to his cane. "That I can /be/ surprised. Even if I never see you again --" The words trail off. "Call me. When you're ready to go." For a moment Lucien's smile twitches a hair wider. And then it fades, back into his previous bland calm. His head tips in a nod. His crumpled cup has fallen again; he stoops to collect /both/ their discarded coffee cups, tucking one inside the other. His lips press together, and he stops before he heads out to crouch by the garden, carefully uproot a stray weed that is daring to creep in. He tucks that into the coffee cup, too. Murphy gets a lazy touch of fingers to forehead in a casual sort of farewell-salute, and then Lucien slips out. Careful not to let the rickety-loose gate catch on his suit as he goes. Murphy watches as Lucien goes; his expression is - somewhere between neutral-peaceful and tense-thoughtful. The salute receives a slow, steady nod. It's only once Lucien has left that Murphy lets out a heavy breath. "...psychic whores," Murphy lazily informs the radishes. "This fuckin' city." For once, the exclamation actually sounds cheerful. The radishes have no comment.