Logs:One Man's Loss

One Man's Loss
Dramatis Personae David, an off-white queen, bishop regent?
In Absentia	2024-03-24 "Deepest condolences?"
Location <HFC> Baths - Hfc Second Floor / <NYC> Le Sanctuaire, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens
<HFC> Baths - Hfc Second Floor Adjoining FitRec's locker rooms, accessed via a bank of showers, this facility is a series of sumptuous saunas ringing a large, co-ed bath. This central chamber has a clean, modern design in black and white marble with fixtures of gleaming brass and chrome. Two arcs of smaller dipping pools spiral out from the large one at the center, the white ones incrementally colder and the black ones hotter. Toward the back, there is a suite of co-ed saunas, ranging from traditional steam rooms to more exotic types--one hot and dry, lined in natural rock salt, one lined with red clay bricks that has a recessed area knee deep in tiny beads of the same material, another chilly and lined with ice. What does one actually do in a sauna? Everyone else seems to be minding their own business, and so is David, wrapped modestly in a thin (but expensive) cotton robe in deep, dusty mauve -- almost black until it catches the light -- and relaxing in one corner with his towel and (also expensive for some reason) shower slides, casting frequent, envious glances over at a pair of fellow sauna enjoyers talking quietly, who are either younger or richer or better-looking than David (he has not decided which, and it doesn't matter.) He is not thinking calming hygge sauna-type thoughts -- instead, he is thinking about his car (a sleek midnight silver Tesla Model Y), which he parked next to another sleek midnight silver Tesla Model Y about half an hour ago, which he can't stop dwelling on. What does one do in a sauna? What Emma Frost is currently doing is swanning into the space -- her own robe (white, of course) sheer enough and draped just so to be just this side of scandalous, hair pinned up in messy-chic updo still damp where a few trailing locks had likely emerged from a shower cap, unnecessarily expensive shower thongs on her feet. Perhaps etiquette dictates that she should be finding a spot comfortably distanced from any already there, but when she sweeps over to the pair engaged in conversation, leans in to murmur something quiet to them, they laugh with seemingly genuine amusement rather than seeming intruded upon. After this she's making her way nearer to David to not mind her business but drop down on the bench not so far from him and lightly rearrange her robe. Her voice, at least, is pitched appropriately quietly as to not bother anyone else here. "Was that your Tesla I saw outside? I have been dying to know how those electric numbers handle -- is it smoother than a Stark model?" As though he has not been considering for half an hour whether this minor coincidence warrants getting a different car, David responds, "Oh, it's a beaut. Smoother than water. I'm sure the Stark model is fine enough, though, I've never driven one." He is looking Emma up and down with keen interest, his dark eyes lighting in a very different way than they had been regarding the others at the sauna -- he is keenly aware of who she is, and at once thrilled and bewildered that she is talking to him. Then this swell of panic is snuffed out, swallowed in a smug << Well, we are both members of the Club, what else is a Club for? >> He fusses elegantly with the sleeve of his robe. "I spent a while with the San Francisco club, when I worked in tech," he informs her. "It felt like every other person drove a Tesla out there! I guess one can't be surprised at California setting trends, of course." "Mmm, yes, I had heard we have you all to thank for," Emma is shifting here to angle just slightly more towards David, fixing her ice-blue gaze on him with an open curiosity, "several shifts in the social media landscape. These days it's feeling more and more like those who control the media control the world, isn't it?" Her voice has dropped just a little, eyes flicking to the others in the room as if she's just mildly worried about the concern of eavesdropping (she is not; a very faint telepathic nudge is keeping even the slight murmur of potential overhearing entirely below their notice.) "And more recently I've also heard a little of your own ambitions in that vein. Is Black --" She's reaching a hand to ever-so-lightly flick fingertips against the cuff of David's dark sleeve, "not your color anymore?" David's eyes, dark and hooded and gleaming, might seem to be hiding more if his thoughts were not an overpowering mix of self-satisfaction, << ha ha ha... I did that >> and sheepishness, << (...Elon really did not perform as expected.) >> He smiles, easy and open -- "Only these days?" he says with amusement. "Ah, I suppose to you young people, everyone seems so much more susceptible than ever. I promise those who controlled the media controlled the world back in my day, too." The smile is sharper now, without seeming to have changed at all -- "I'm not even convinced that those who controlled the world back in my day don't, still." His surge of excitement as Emma reaches for his sleeve is almost obscene for its lack of horniness. "Oh, I look fine in black," he says, "but I'm not getting any younger, and I'm looking to settle down a little. I've been all over the world, and it's the U.S. of A. I still like best. Possibly --" his words take on a tone of light-hearted conspiracy, "the only trendsetter bigger than California, eh?" "In your day?" Emma's eyebrows lift, an amusement lilting in her tone. "Has your day ended? From where I sit, it looks like your sun could be on the rise." She's shifting to lean a little more comfortably against the wall. "I might be biased but I think New York could compete for that title. What are you looking to settle into?" "Bah, you flatter me," says David, who is nonetheless extremely flattered. "Well, there's mass media," he muses, "and then there's the media -- maybe only Wesleyan graduates pay attention to media but, who pays attention to Wesleyan graduates?" Is this a rhetorical question? His simultaneous disdain and envy for the commentariat is, probably, bleeding a little into his voice -- it's certainly bled into his thoughts. "Who's making a difference in the end, you know, Joe Voter? Joe Protester? I think it's some newsroom busybody with a little bit of clout that ninety-nine percent of Americans have never heard of, let alone read. Of course --" he waves one dismissive hand, his tone infused again with sheepishness -- "I'm only a mediocre writer, myself. I'd do much better on the executive side." Emma is hiding a smile behind the loose curl of her fingers. "In the end? Often, lately, we are." Her hand drops to her lap, fingers smoothing lightly down an unwanted crease in the fabric of her robe. "Though I admit we might soon need some people --" There's a small and thoughtful pause here as she looks David over; in her keen gaze and subtle curve of smile there's a definite sense that he's been sized up and found Up To Snuff. "-- who are used to being trendsetters. You might have heard, but we've had a fairly tragic loss quite recently." Nothing in her tone or expression suggests a particular weight to this tragedy; neither does it when she continues lightly, "but then, what is it they say about one man's loss?" David does not answer the question outright. Perhaps it would be gauche -- a man's just died, after all. He tilts his head back slightly to regard his companion searchingly. "Deepest condolences?" he suggests, but his smile -- stretching broad and winsome and self-congratulatory back over his face -- is saying something else. "I've found that if you surround yourself with the right people you can weather any difficulties." Emma does not laugh -- that would be gauche! But the amusement is warm in her expression as she gets fluidly back to her feet. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon." "So have I," is almost bizarrely sincere. David stands too, adjusting his robe as he does, probably just to be polite, raising one hand in a wave farewell -- as soon as she departs he is going to sit down and think about buying a new car. --- <NYC> Le Sanctuaire, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens This café occupies what had been the sanctuary of the old cathedral, and retains some echo of its solemnity without any sense of severity. Two additional levels have been installed in the trefoil footprint, but do not extend all the way to the walls, supported instead by a sturdy steel frame. This gives the impression, as one enters, that the space is fitted with scaffolding and perpetually under renovation--but in a deliberate, beautiful way. The harsh lines of the load-bearing frame are softened by wrought iron fleur-de-lis scrollwork accented in gold. The tables and seating are also of graceful black iron relieved with cushions in red velvet. The long counter is curved along the back wall, and to either side arched doorways lead out into a colonnaded patio in the garden. In one lobe of the trefoil, a square spiral stair ascends to the upper levels, while a platform lift does the same opposite, both balancing utilitarian design with aesthetic sensibility. The most striking addition is the immense stained glass window, masterfully marrying to the neoclassical splendor of the original structure and the Parisian café ambience of the added levels. Its colors are rich yet pellucid, its lines clean and decisive, and its subject decidedly not Christian. The towering figure of Apollo gazes down serene and benevolent, three golden arrows clutched in his right hand and and a golden lyre cradled in his left arm. He's bare to the waist save for a sumptuous red mantle and gold pauldrons, and wears a white skirt overlaid with gold pteruges. He is crowned with a wreath of living green laurel, the great silver bow across his back like the arc of a crescent moon rising across the bright sunburst that halos him. A great serpent encircles the pedestal upon which he stands and lifts its sleek head toward the god in obedience if not adoration, visually recalling the legendary staff he gifted his brother Hermes. Naseemah Chaudhry's name may not have come up in the ambient discussions about the White Court's capricious rook. And yet, after all the insinuations about that Court's connections to the media world perhaps it is not much surprising to find the well-known and well-lauded journalist here sipping tea at a garden patio table at the expected hour, her sharply tailored bold yellow skirt suit striking against her warm brown skin. Maybe it should be surprising to find her here with company already at a presumably private meeting -- but somehow that seems pretty normal, too. "I admit," Naseemah is saying, lightly, after the appropriate greetings, "personnel changes haven't historically been my department here. But I guess we're all making some changes these days, and from what I've seen looking into you, you'll fit right in." David looks absolutely tickled to be meeting none other than Naseemah Chaudry today; his smile is so charming that it reaches his eyes, lifts his sleek, dark eyebrows. He is dressed neat and dapper as well, in an understated pin-striped suit with a subtly patterned red tie -- he keeps one hand pressed to his breast in a modest, congenial way as he shakes hands and settles himself in. "Well!" he says, in a pleased, friendly baritone, "I'm certainly glad to hear that. I admit I was a little optimistic, did Miss Frost tell you about our little chance encounter?" Beside Naseemah, Elie Tessier would be striking if not for the fact that it seems so understandable for her to be here beside Naseemah in a black off-the-shoulder mermaid dress of bias-cut satin that drapes and moves just so, matching opera gloves, a black fascinator worn at a jaunty angle with a token birdcage mourning veil, and stiletto heels in black patent leather. She's stirring slow at her own tea with a tiny and delicate spoon. "Miss Frost?" There's just a suggestion of laughter in her tone that is only stopped short of being outright condescension by the way her small leaning-in, the quiet intimacy of her voice, suggests that it's less disdain for Emma and more that her present company is So Much More important. "Carry that optimism with you, M. Smith, it will serve us well. Please don't trouble yourself about Ms. Frost -- we have much bigger changes to plan."