ArchivedLogs:Playing With Fire

Playing With Fire
Dramatis Personae Arturo, Lucien
In Absentia	2014-03-27 '
Location <NYC> Dogtown - Midtown East
A small nook of a joint in Midtown, Dogtown is decorated with little thought to class or style. Cheerful, with black and white tiled flooring, bright red tables, bright yellow walls, menus plastered on peeling sheets over the counter, the walls are papered in an assortment of photographs -- smiling patrons who hold records for successfully eating six or more hot dogs in one one-hour sitting. The menu here is simple and solid -- hot dogs both beef or vegan with a huge array of toppings, fries, slaw, chili. It's not haute cuisine but the dogs are good enough to draw large crowds, especially late at night. It's an odd in-between time that leaves many restaurants kind of deserted (and a few with a tendency to just close entirely in the not-lunch not-dinner hour); Dogtown is not very populated, just at the moment. One young man hemming and hawing at the counter over the extensive list of menu toppings he could get on his dog; he's evidently /been/ indecisive for some while now. The man behind him -- rather /overdressed/ for a place like this in /very/ elegantly tailored dove-grey three-piece suit, a neat black peacoat and a green scarf draped over his arm -- has gotten out his phone to check emails while he waits with just a /hint/ of impatience in his tapping toe and intermittent glances cast to the back of the other man's head. Lucien's thumb swipe-swipe-swipes against the screen of his phone, lips pressed thinly together as he waits. And waits. And -- waits. "How complicated can it be to order a hot dog?" mutters a commiserating voice from beind Lucien. Arturo is not elegantly dressed, but nor does he seem without style. His wool peacoat is of a good make and a decent label, if a bit careworn. Either he has a sharp eye for thrift shop finds, or he used to have money. He's not bothering with his camouflage power, and it just so happens that the wind outside ruffled his hair that is usually carefully arranged to cover up his rather strange looking ears. One is peeking out a bit on the left side. "It is apparently quite an intensive undertaking." Lucien's gentle voice is softly accented, francophone tinge betraying his Quebecois roots. "I have heard that the ketchup-no ketchup debate can be /very/ controversial." He's glanced up from his phone and half-turned to look at the man speaking behind him. The smile on his face is reflexive habit, polite-small; for a moment as the breeze ruffles at Arturo's hair his eyebrows tick up /just/ faintly, his smile twitching /just/ a touch at its corners. "At least in some parts of the country. Then again, some people will argue about anything." "Sometimes people just want someone to talk to, y'know? I see it happen at work. I'm uh, I'm a clinic doctor. People inventing ailments or overstating an injury just so the exam will go on longer. This guy, though..." Arturo goes up on his heels a bit and peers around Lucien. "This guy's just a dick. I don't even know if I want a hot dog this badly. The street corner guys might have questionable health practices, but at least they're fast." "Tempting." Lucien's eyes slowly skip back down from Arturo's hair to his face. "But the chili here is /excellent/ and I have had a craving." His knuckles scuff lightly against his jawline, and he exhales a quiet breath that is almost-not-quite laughter at Arturo's story. "There are some people, I suppose," he murmurs slow and thoughtful, "there are some people with rather a dearth of human contact in their lives. Having companionship you have to /pay/ for might be the only alternative. Still, if they crave it that badly perhaps just sitting and talking with them /is/ part of the doctoring, mmm?" "Certainly is. And hey, no one listens to you more closely and unselfishly than someone you're paying." Arturo furrows his brow as he considers the menu. He digs his hands into his pockets. "See, a friend, well, they're biased. Somewhere in the back of their mind, they're thinking about the problem in relation to them. Same with family. But a doctor, a psychiatrist, they're paid to listen and not bring their own shit into it." "Funnily enough, I experience much the same at work." There's quiet amusement buried in Lucien's voice here. His arms cross slowly against his chest, eyes rotating back up to the menu. Down the the young man in front (who is asking, now, about the availability perhaps of /hamburgers/ instead?), back up to the menu. "People often just want to know there /is/ someone listening." Arturo makes a habitual check to cover his ear. When he notices it's uncovered, he tries to cover it up without being too obvious about it. He rather fails. He clears his throat. "Let me guess. Retail? Call centre? Ah, nice suit. Lawyer?" He avoids eye contact and pretends to be scrutinizing the menu. "Whore," Lucien answers smooth and unapologetic, eyes ticking briefly upwards towards Arturo's hair. "If you are concerned, I know some /quite/ excellent -- {oh, thank gods.}" This latter is in quiet French as /finally/ the young man in front of them -- leaves, no food ordered. Perhaps he is going elsewhere to quibble over hamburgers. Lucien's order comes promptly when it is /his/ turn -- chili cheese fries, a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, and a root beer. "-- milliners," he finishes, after thanking the cashier and paying. Between being caught with his ears out and Lucien's unapologetic proclamation of his chosen career, Arturo is rather thrown off. Fortunately, he has an excuse not to say anything right away, due to the line's sudden movement. He orders his own with sauteed onions, grainy mustard, ketchup and relish. He eyes Lucien's chili cheese fries and orders his own. "A...what? And uh, well, my kneejerk doctorly reaction is to say 'be safe,' but in my experience, sex workers are among the most careful. Certainly more than your average beefed up frat boy on spring break." "Hatmakers." Lucien turns aside from the counter to grab a trio of napkins from a holder and then seat himself up on the long bar-counter that runs along the window. He folds his coat across his lap, setting his things down carefully and licking a stray glob of chili from his thumb. "Oh, New York? These days? I think just walking down the street has been far riskier than my profession ever was. I have yet to be attacked by zombies during an engagement." His lips twitch slightly. "But -- yes. I often do feel as though clients come to us for very /similar/ reasons others might see a therapist." "A little pleasure with their therapy. Or maybe the pleasure is the therapy." Arturo sits down at the counter, but not right next to Lucien. There's a chair between them. Just enough space so that he's not imposing himself. His mind rolls back to the hat comment. His brow furrows. Ah. Well. He'll just leave that comment where it lies. There is another half-unconscious check of his hair, though. "A little of each, sometimes, perhaps. It /does/ get hard to go through life if you /never/ have a little indulgence, non?" A small smile tugs up at Lucien's mouth, and before he reaches for his hot dog he extends a hand to Arturo in offering. "Lucien." "I suppose." He doesn't seem overly put-off by Lucien's profession. A little thrown at first, yes, but that was due to the candor. He reaches to shake Lucien's hand. "Arturo. Ah uh, les..frites semblent bonnes, n'es ce pas?" His accent isn't /terrible/, but it's certainly not polished. "I'm from Maine. Right on the border with New Brunswick. Used to spend summers visiting my cousins in French-speaking towns." Lucien gives Arturo a small warm smile, for the handshake; it also comes with a very /subtle/-soft flutter of something happy-warm as well, an unobtrusive-quiet ripple of feeling that whispers out to put /just/ the faintest bit of mood-brightening warm-happy /association/ together with the handshake. "{The fries here are delicious,}" he slips back into French easily. "{If you are going to do junk food you may as well do it /right/, no? -- Maine. Mmm. What brought you down here?}" The little flutter is soft enough that Arturo doesn't realize what's happening. It does make him smile a little. If one were to be looking close enough, oddly shaped teeth might briefly be visible. "Ahh, sorry, I only got about every third word of that. My French is pretty rusty. It's also Acadian, which is its own thing." He chuckles, then digs into his fries with a fork. "I think I got that last bit. Work, is the short answer. I'm not patient enough to be a small town doctor." Or unremarkable enough. It's hard enough to cover up what he is in a big city. "I imagine New York provides no end of /excitement/, at least, in the medical field." There's something just slightly dry in Lucien's tone at this. He plucks out a fry between forefinger and thumb, stretching a long melty strand of cheese behind it before it breaks off and he pops the whole thing into his mouth. He unscrews the lid of his root beer bottle, chasing fry with a sip before he speaks again. "Though perhaps more or less depending on what /field/. Primary care, or some other speciality?" "Ahh, well," Arturo uses the excuse of taking a bite of his hot dog to formulate his response. "Right now? I'm a floater. I fill in at clinics where there's a need. I work the occasional free clinic, too. To make contacts and build up my references. But." Normally he wouldn't say this, but the happyfuzzy handshake seems to have loosened his tongue a bit. "...my specialty is the treatment of people with abnormal physiology." "Really? I'm sure that wins you no end of friends most places, hmm?" The dry note in Lucien's voice has continued. He starts in on his hot dog, dabbing afterwards at his mouth with one of his napkins. "Do you know, there is a whole Clinic /just/ for that? They have done some impressive work in the field." His eyes lower to his food, thoughtful. "Though if it is contacts you are looking for, I do have a friend who you might be interested to know. He is no doctor. Assistive technology, largely. But he has done extensive work assisting those with nonstandard physiological needs." "I don't trust the big clinics. The reason I've burned my professional bridges is because I objected to the ways in which the information pertaining to my patients was being used. Or potentially being used. Medical research into..." Arturo takes a deep breath and decides not to beat around the bush. "...into mutants, could easily be very dangerous in the wrong hands. So it's the dilemma of learning what I need to learn without inadvertantly helping the bad guys." "/Was/ being used, or /could/ be used?" Lucien wonders, softly. A very /thin/ smile flits across his lips, his fingers tightening slow but hard against his root beer bottle. "Oh, no. I know who the bad guys are. It is not the people at Mendel." "Was, the first time. Could be, the second." Arturo bites his lower lip. "I may have been a bit oversensitive after the first time." He grumpily spears his chili fries. Their deliciousness doesn't seem to cheer him up much. "The man I had in mind runs an independent business of his own, regardless. But has assisted a number of people with adaptations that -- the standard medical community would likely be both unwilling and un/able/ to have fashioned. They have not, really," Lucien observes after another swallow of root beer, "quite yet caught up to the idea of how to treat a human with wings or dual respiratory systems." He, on the other hand, seems to be eating his hot dog with some amount of relish. "See, see. That's the problem. We can't help these people without playing with fire." This seems to have touched a nerve and also awakened something in Arturo. He was rather mellow before, but now his energy seems barely contained. "Can you imagine...if there was the potential to manufacture a disease that only attacked one type of person? Imagine if it was gay people, or black people. And imagine if that could be worked on behind the guise of helping? The only reason we haven't seen that kind of biological warfare before is because humans are humans. But mutants...there's just enough of a difference in genetic makeup to potentially manufacture a plague that could wipe every mutant out. That terrifies me. That's..." he holds up a hand. "...worst-case, I admit. And maybe a little paranoid." He shoves a fry into his mouth. "But you know how much money a company is going to make if they're the first to make a reliable mutant test?" Lucien's brows raise somewhat skeptically at the mention of biological warfare -- not, evidently, because the notion /lacks/ credence but because: "Did you sleep through the zombie plague, Arturo?" There's a little bit of a wan tightness to his expression that soon passes. "Over a million dead and /that/ travesty /was/ the flawed byproduct of people like that /attempting/ to make a plague to wipe out every mutant. I do not think it is paranoia when the story has been admitted on the news. Though Prometheus, admittedly, was not pretending to help." "They'll try again. That's the point. And they'll be subversive about it. A lot more. But the alternative is not doing the medical research at all." Arturo shakes his head and sighs. "Suddenly I want a beer." A rough chuckle follows that. "Anyway. You were saying about your friend?" "Certainly they will. Likely already are," Lucien agrees easily. "But --" His hand tips out towards Arturo, also in agreement. "As you say. What is the alternative? Never helping mutants for fear of where their information will go? Never /establishing/ the facilities /equipped/ to help them? Never doing the research necessary to learn the best /ways/ to help them? It's vitally important to do research concerning mutants -- for their own health. Just, ah." His lips press together thinly. He pauses for another bite of hot dog. "-- Consensually." His lips quirk upward slightly. "I was only saying he might be a useful contact to you if metahuman physiology is your especial interest. He is /exceedingly/ well-connected, both in the medical and in the mutant communities." "I've been doing research on my own for the last while. I've been trying to continue the work I was doing when I had funding." Arturo moves the fries around, but doesn't bring any food to his mouth. "I know I need to trust someone again. But. But. It's difficult." He flicks at a fry. "Before you give me any referrals, you should know that I'm something of a persona non grata in the medical research world. You walk out on research contracts, that doesn't tend to make people happy." "Difficult, also, I imagine, to continue proper research with no funding and no facilities." Lucien polishes off his hot dog, wiping his lips and fingertips both clean and then pulling the fries in front of him. "I will not vouch for your reliability, then." He sounds quietly amused. "Or vouch for anything, really, save that you do order hot dogs with the proper expedience. Do you have a business card?" That description provokes a heavy sigh from Arturo. Just so. He looks a bit defeated, but then he goes through a nearly visible process of picking himself back up again. He smiles a close-lipped smile. "I do, yeah. Nothing fancy." He reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a very plain business card that he hands over. It simply says, 'Dr. Arturo Ridley, MD' and a phone number and email address. "I should head off. I've got a shift coming up pretty soon and I've got to get across town." "Delightful." There's a low pleased note to Lucien's tone that suggests he may truly /be/ delighted, as he takes the business card from Arturo with a very small nod. "Have a pleasant evening, then, Doctor." "If I never hear anything again, I won't be offended. Usually legitimate medical recruitment doesn't happen at a hot dog stand." Some of Arturo's good humour from earlier has returned. There's an amused twinkle in his eyes. "And usually not in conversation with a sex worker. If something comes of this, I'll have a hell of a story to tell at parties." He takes one more bite of his hot dog, dusts off his hands and scrapes the stool back. "Have a good one." "I have provided people with /many/ of those in the course of my career," Lucien replies, softly amused. His head inclines politely to Arturo, just before he turns his attention to his goopy melty-cheese mess of fries. "Bonsoir."