Logs:Keeping Faith

Keeping Faith
Dramatis Personae Clint, Lucien, Flèche
In Absentia	2019-08-26 "I only occasionally get paid to pretend to be someone I'm not."
Location <PRV> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. Autumn has come early to New York City, and a pleasant breeze cools the August sunlight that streams down on Clint and his dog as they stroll through the Village. Clint is dressed in a black t-shirt with a purple chevron on the chest, a black and purple softshell jacket thrown over one arm, and well-worn blue jeans. At the other end of the leash he holds, Arrow is tugging steadily ahead with great interest towards a town house on Waverly Place. Man and dog reach their destination and the former checks his watch before knocking on the door. Arrow's tail starts wagging well before any response comes. Inside the house there's a skittering of paws, an eager snuffling at the door. It isn't long before the door actually opens; Flèche shoots out onto the front steps, tail wagging furiously, to sniff at Arrow. Lucien is much more reserved, where he stands in the doorway in grey slacks and vest, a pale green dress shirt. He gestures the others in with a tilt of his hand, a small inclination of his head. Behind him the apartment smells warm and cinnamony-sweet. "Good afternoon." Clint stoops to unhook Arrow's leash and give Flèche a cursory pat on the head before both dogs go zooming off into the house. "Good afternoon," he echoes, straightening up and winding the leash into a tight loop around one of his hands. "Are those cinnamon rolls I smell?" He steps inside and unzips his boots, leaving the leash there with them. From a pocket he produces a small black fob and pushes a button on it. A green LED lights, and he gives a small nod, putting the object away. "I hope you and yours have been well." "They are not." Lucien locks the door behind Clint. His eyes track the dogs' exuberant path through the house only briefly, returning to his human guest once the pups have tumbled off out of sight (though not earshot) into the dining room. The press of his lips is extremely slight, as is the fleeting dip between his brows before his quietly musing query: "Ought they to be cinnamon rolls?" He's drifting off toward the kitchen even as he asks this -- where, regrettably, there are no cinnamon rolls, but is a large pot heating on the stove, a tray beside it with neatly lined up squares of as-yet-uncooked dough, a row of toppings set out on the counter -- chocolate and caramel sauces, raspberry compote, powdered sugar, cinnamon. "Would you like some coffee?" Lucien is already flicking the burner on beneath a kettle. "Not at all." Clint follows his host deeper into the house. "I have every faith in your culinary abilities, but I don't have very much imagination." He pauses a beat, eyes lighting with interest as they fall upon the preparations on the counter. "Not for food, anyway." He slouches down onto a stool at the island counter, suddenly looking haggard, but only for a moment. "Please. Large amounts of it." He stares at the muted blue flame beneath the kettle, his expression blank and stoic. The question was, perhaps, a formality. Lucien already has a French press and a small teapot prepared and waiting. He now claims a pair of pale green mugs from the cabinet to stand beside them as he waits for the water to boil. "We all have our talents." He picks up two of the dough squares on a slotted spoon, lowering them into the pot with a hiss and crackle of heated oil. Then two more pairs. "I generally have quite an active imagination, myself. It has been working overtime sketching out the most fantastical pictures of your recent pursuits." Clint rises and resituates himself, leaning against the far end of the counter Lucien is working at--presumably so that his host needn't stop what he is doing and turn around whenever he speaks. "I'm afraid the reality may not live up to your creativity." There's something vaguely apologetic in his tone here. "But I'll explain, if you'll share some of your more colourful theories." He sighs. "I feel like I should swear you to secrecy, but honestly..." One shoulder hitches up. "I don't know that I deserve it, and certainly have no way to enforce it. So I'm just going to trust your judgement. I am a security consultant. I'm just--not freelance." "The most plausible theory I had was that Arrow had tired of being left alone one day and when he struck out from city, chanced upon a group of undercover canine spies on a mission to rescue one of their humans." Lucien pauses long enough to start the tea and coffee bother brewing. Then fish out the golden beignets, dropping a pair of them onto a plate and sliding it towards Clint before removing the other two. "The mission hit a bit of a roadblock when the pups realized they would require the use of a vehicle and none of their legs could reach the pedals." He tips the spoon towards the row of toppings. "You can doctor your beignets as you like." His tone is quite calm, though his eyes have locked with a great -- and very solemn interest on Clint. "As yet, your version of the tale still meshes with mine. Knowing of your skills, Arrow turned to you for help and -- that is, of course, where your text came in." Whether from hearing his name or smelling the food, Arrow trots into the room and eyes Lucien with keen interest, licking his chops. "Thank you. This is far better than cinnamon rolls." Clint accepts the plate with a quick curl of a smile that practically qualifies as a grin by his standards. He powders his beignets liberally with sugar and cinnamon before drizzling every sauce available on them. "Yeah, I definitely prefer your version. Not sure mine is all that much more plausible." He nibbles at one of the beignets experimentally, winces, and sets it back down on the plate. "Alright, so Arrow was staying with a co-worker this whole time, though I can't say for sure he didn't have adventures of his own. But as for me--I'm a spy, of sorts, and I was sent to infiltrate a Prometheus facility last month." He frowns slightly. "I...didn't realize what they actually did there, and to whom." If this information comes as a surprise to Lucien, it does not much show. He wears the same expression of quiet interest, which breaks -- not at Clint's words but at the arrival of the pups, Flèche following soon in Arrow's wake. A small quirk pulls at a corner of his mouth, and he taps his fingers lightly against his beignets, testing their heat in turn before tossing one to Arrow and setting the other in Flèche's bowl. "Of sorts." His eyes have returned to Clint with this. "And your employer sent you into Prometheus without apprising you of their activities?" One dark eyebrow raises. He drops another quartet of beignets into the pot. "I only occasionally get paid to pretend to be someone I'm not." Clint shrugs and pops one of his beignets into his mouth. That he manages to do this without smearing syrup and sugar over his entire face is a testament to his tremendous skill. "This is delicious. I think Arrow agrees." The scruffy brown mutt has, indeed, edged closer to Lucien and is staring up at the pot, tilting his head this way and that. "I'm not sure my employer knew exactly what to expect, either. They said it was a research program that offered reduced sentencing to mutants in prison--which is certainly sketchy, but no more than is the norm for this country." He bites the inside of his cheek, regarding Lucien steadily. "I don't know if we'd have ever bothered looking into the project at all, if Steve Rogers hadn't talked my boss into it." Lucien freezes for a brief moment, the twitch of his lips very small. He sets his spoon down lightly on a ceramic leaf-shaped spoon rest, turning briefly aside to decant the coffee and tea into mugs. He adds a splash of milk and sugar to his own tea, sets Clint's coffee down unadulterated in front of him. "Steve can be somewhat tenacious, when roused." He fishes another pair of the doughnuts out of the oil, setting them this time on his own plate; the second pair, to Clint. The pups, this time, get a strip of jerky each, fished out of one of several ceramic jars atop the fridge -- this one says "Pawsatively Spoiled" on it. He switches off the burner, takes a seat at the counter himself to doctor his beignets -- raspberry and chocolate on one, cinnamon and sugar on the other. "Have you since adjusted your employer's understanding of the project?" "I'd love to know what he said to convince our director. The guy's a hardass, and hasn't been keen to get on the U.S. government's bad side--which will definitely happen if my mission is discovered. Thank you." This last for the coffee. Clint moves back to the island counter, but does not sit just yet. "Yeah, I've told the director in person, and I'll submit a full report, with recordings. He said we'll do something about it. I'm skeptical." He piles sugar and syrup on his fresh beignets, and a little extra on the one already covered. "It's not that I had a lot of illusions about this job. But I guess I have fewer, now." He takes a careful sip of his coffee. "I know you were already involved, but--I'm sorry for dropping that in your lap on so little notice. There had been some planning SNAFU and they were counting on a ride." "Recordings?" Lucien has been reaching for his tea; the motion hitches briefly before he completes it. Takes a slow sip, his fingers tight around the handle. "I imagine any type of action from a large organization will take some time to put in motion -- even if they do decide to do the right thing, and even if it turns out they do have the pull to get it done. Both of which --" He hums noncommitally, and takes another sip of tea. "I admit that it was not the most pleasant intermission I have ever had. My temporary inconvenience rather paled beside --" Briefly, Lucien's eyes lower to his cup. "What those people were going through. I am relieved that they were ultimately successful." "I guess we'll see." Clint devours another beignet and nods. "I gathered over a hundred hours of audio and video surveillance." He sips at his coffee. Then, "I'm only turning in about two-thirds of that. As for the rest, I have no idea if it would do any good, or how much a skilled hacker could obscure its source. I would rather not get disappeared over something they're just going to sweep under the carpet, but if it could bring Prometheus down..." He pulls a small metal USB drive from a pocket and sets it carefully down on the counter between himself and Lucien. "That's a risk I'm willing to take." Though his voice is level and calm, his hand trembles as he withdraws it, and there is a distant glint of apprehension in his gaze when it lifts again. "I'd still appreciate a heads-up if and when you find a use for it. And, well...viewer discretion is advised." Lucien plucks up one of his doughnuts carefully between forefinger and thumb, somehow managing to take a delicate bite without spattering powdered sugar all over his vest. His eyes fall to the drive; he draws in a slow breath. He opens his mouth -- looks back to Clint -- exhales again without saying anything. "When I use it, I will make sure it counts." His words are very quiet, before he reaches to take the drive. He slips it into a pocket. Eats the rest of his beignet in a careful quiet contemplation before asking Clint, mildly: "I do not suppose you would care for some whiskey in that coffee?" Clint only nods and picks up another beignet--he's getting sloppier, which might bespeak stress or extreme appreciation or both. "Yes, please," his tone is also mild, but his pupils are a little dilated and his movements a little jerky. "You know, when I first offered to help, Flicker was worried. About my livelihood. Mine. Some stranger working there, in that place, while they were..." He shakes his head and starts halfheartedly trying to clean the sugar-caked chocolate sauce from his hands with a paper napkin. "It's almost enough to make a man believe." "Sounds very on brand. Do you know he's been at this since he was himself a child. Sixteen, I believe, when he first joined the rescue missions." Lucien rises, crosses to the bar, returns with a bottle of Knappogue twelve year that he pours liberally into Clint's mug. His lips twitch, very faintly. "Would it beggar belief if I told you he is also a carpenter?" Clint shakes his head. "My briefing only confirmed his involvement in those raids going back five years, but as mentioned before, it was kind of light on the details overall. Thank you." He raises his mug to salute his host, then takes a generous swig. "My friend, if you told me now the man walked on water, I wouldn't even blink."