Logs:Loose Ends

Loose Ends
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Polaris, Wendy
In Absentia	2021-03-05 "I'm glad we could clear that up so quickly, then."
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. Somewhere, a perch is missing its raven. Malthus sits with his back to the wall, near one of the exits -- clad in his long dark coat to stave off the evening chill. His head is shaved bald, his expression serene and tranquil -- a serenity that is interrupted by the angry scar that snarls across his left eye, rendering it pale and sightless. On the table in front of him, a steaming cup of coffee sits, with the name 'ROGERS' neatly printed on its side in marker. He's currently perusing the contents of a newspaper -- something of an eccentricity, in this age. At least... that's what it looks like he's doing. An astute viewer might notice two things -- the fact that his smartphone is out on the table in front of him, partially obscured by the paper... and the fact that, quite discreetly, he's keeping a close eye (just one) on the going-ons throughout the cafe. After all, this is unholy ground. ...yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death... Polaris is, today at least, being a rather astute observer. She'd finished her shift some time before her mysterious contact arrived, and remained in the back to watch him on the store's bot-cam video feed. Then she'd changed and slipped out the back, circling around to the street where, outside of Malthus's sightline she is now smoking a cigarette--she fingers trembling minutely--and waiting for Wendy. She's in a heavy duty black canvas jacket festooned with steel hardware much like her belt, black boots, and wrist cuffs, a green satin brocade corset, a gauzy purple shirt beneath it for modesty, and a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck. Her senses are stretched to their limits to feel for unusual ferrous and electrical signals, though she does not look up at the sniper watching Malthus. Her fingers tremble minutely as she lifts the cigarette to her lips, metallic green lipstick somehow not coming off on the filter, matching eyeshadow and winged black eyeliner not quite as flawless as they might be. Wendy is just hastening down the narrow street, arms folded across her chest and hands tucked into the crooks of her arms. She's dressed comfortably against the evening chill in hip-length moss green coat half buttoned over a cream colored blouse with intricate embroidery of flowering vines and small, jewel-bright birds on its broad lace-trimmed collar, a fawn-colored a-line skirt falling to her ankles but not wholly concealing her brown slouch boots. She comes to a halt at Polaris's side, hands not unfolding and her weight settling, still and quiet. Her breath comes out in a small puff, and her eyes flick very small from Polaris up to the nearby building and back, though she says nothing until Polaris's cigarette is done. Only, "-- mmm?" with a tip of her head to the door, a hand touched lightly to Polaris's elbow. She heads inside, beelines for Malthus's table, keeping her coat on as she folds herself into a seat adjacent to Malthus's. Somewhere three stories up, a lone man watches Malthus through the length of a scope. As Wendy approaches, his fingers drift across the pad in front of him, performing an intricate, delicate dance. Before Wendy even reaches his table, the phone in front of him flickers -- no sound, no vibration, but words appear on the screen. Malthus's one eye flicks down; his hand descends gently atop of the phone to palm it, easing it to the edge and swiping a button. By the time Wendy is sitting, the paper is neatly folded and laid atop it -- creased up just enough to let him see the bottom of the screen. It's a practiced flourish; subtle, but not so subtle as to imply it is meant to be unseen. His voice reaches not only the new arrival, but the man who watches from three stories above: "Good evening." That solitary blue eye regards her with the detached air of a distant bird of prey. Despite her obvious tension, Polaris shadows Wendy with the ease of long habit. Her eyes dart quick and fierce, tracking the movements of Malthus's hands as she sits across from him, one leg tucked under herself and the other bouncing restlessly. "I don't know who you are, but that's just frakking rude. Turn it over," she says without preamble. Then, "The hell do you want?" Wendy is stiller, prim and quiet as she tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. Her eyes drop to the newspaper, then lift back to Malthus. Her hands fold, fall to her lap, and her head dips in a quiet nod of hello. Her lips compress just a touch at Polaris's much more abrupt greeting, her eyes fluttering briefly. "My apologies." The phone is flipped over in an instant; it is placed to the side. Still within reach, but no longer immediately in front of him. "An old habit." That tranquil blue eye shifts from Wendy to Polaris. "Miss Dane, I presume? I wanted to clarify a certain matter regarding your biological mother. Let me start by assuring you that this is not..." A flicker of something across Malthus's expression; almost -- but not quite -- a smile. "...an official inquiry. More tidying up of loose ends -- Dotting our I's and crossing our T's, as they say." "Thanks," Polaris says, and it might not be obvious that the easing of her posture follows from Wendy's reaction rather than Malthus's apology. "Polaris," she corrects him, only the slightest edge in her voice. "My name is Polaris." One of her dark green green eyebrows arch. "Okay. So don't you just ask her? She's talkative as heck and actually trusts the government for some reason." Wendy hums, soft and almost to herself. "Oh," her voice is soft, eyes lifting again just a little wider than they'd been before. "I"m sorry, we had the impression --" There's an apologetic note in her voice, her head shaking only a little as she pushes her chair back an inch. "Just -- if it's not an official inquiry, then she can just -- go? Only it's Shabbat and we've got dinner waiting." "It's a rather... delicate matter. I wished to avoid inflicting any unnecessary stress on the woman -- particularly since, I suspect, the matter can be effortlessly settled by you," Malthus replies, addressing Polaris. And then that blue eye drifts to Wendy. At her words and tone, something shifts in him -- his expression, his posture. Hard to read. Amusement? Interest? He seems pleased by her response; like a chess-player titillated by an opponent's opening move. "Ah. Again, I must apologize -- it was thoughtless of me to schedule this on the day of rest," he tells her. "I was not aware," and now that single blue eye fixes upon Polaris, "that you, like Mr. Lensherr, are Jewish." "I mean, how is it more okay to," Polaris brackets the next few words in finger-quotes, "'inflict unnecessary stress' on me? Anyway I'm not gonna violate my mother's privacy just cuz some fed asked nicely, and you can't make me without a subpoena." She glances at Wendy, her eyes still quick and darting, pale hazel clearly showing how dilated they are. At Magneto's name she freezes, her hands gripping the edge of the table, fingers extending one after another. "A stranger in their camp," she says finally, quietly, almost as if to herself. "But I celebrate what my family celebrates." "I'm Jewish," Wendy corrects with a small smile, "She just likes my challah." She doesn't freeze, but then, there wasn't much fidget in her posture to begin with. Her head does tilt again, small and birdlike. "I don't think you said? What -- matter it was that you're here for?" Malthus lifts his palm, as if to ward off a physical blow from Polaris. The gesture is purely symbolic; it is clear he expects no such assault to arrive. "Think of it less as a violation of her privacy and more as an opportunity to confirm that there is no need to speak with her in the first place. The matter is delicate for her, because it is regarding time spent with a known mutant terrorist -- not, of course, known at the time," he adds. "I'm simply looking for an assurance that whatever her relationship with him was, it is concluded -- and there is no reason to presume that what contact she did have is relevant to activities carried out in his name." The hand Malthus lifted in a gesture of faux defensiveness glides to the coffee cup besides him. "An assurance, nothing more. To the best of your limited knowledge, of course. I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with the going-ons of known terrorist threats." The coffee cup rises. "But this way, I can avoid having to conduct a more... official inquiry, you see." He sips his coffee. By all appearances, he's enjoying it immensely. Polaris's jaw sets hard, her eyes narrowing. "She knew him before I was born. I have never even seen the man. Besides..." She scoffs, leaning back in her chair. "My mom does not give a d--arn about mutant rights, not even in the left-liberal kinda way. Why're you barking up that tree anyway?" She gestures wildly at the glass windows to the street. "You have him in jail already. Oh, sorry, indefinite detention." "Oh!" Wendy's eyes flutter wider, a flush of pink in her cheeks. "Is that all?" She gets to her feet, dropping a hand to rest her fingertips on Polaris's jacket. "I'm glad we could clear that up so quickly, then." The squeeze of her slender fingers comes lightly, barely noticeable except where they lie against her friend's shoulder. "Shabbat shalom, Mr. Rogers." The coffee cup descends. That ghost of a smile. "Oh, yes -- I believe it was... hm. Twenty-seven years ago, wasn't it?" He grimaces at the mention of indefinite detention -- as if the very notion was an affront to him. But before he can speak, Wendy acts. His solitary eye focuses, razor-sharp, upon her. When she seizes hold of her friend, Malthus lifts a brow... and there's a subtle, near-imperceptible nod. His eye drifts back to Polaris. "Your insights in this matter have been deeply appreciated." Again, that flicker of a smile. Polaris rises promptly as Wendy's fingers press down. "Whatever. Enjoy your coffee." Even this comes out faintly aggressive, somehow. For a moment she looks like she wants to say something else, one hand gripping the back of the chair, knuckles white, and the thumb of her other hand fidgeting with a silver ring on the adjacent index finger. Finally she conquers the urge to speak, turns on her thick-booted heels, and follows Wendy out.