Logs:Slippery as Fuck

Slippery as Fuck
Dramatis Personae Anahita, Damien, Joshua
In Absentia Lucien, Matt, Jax, Ryan, Charles	2024-07-02 "Such a way of twisting words, in your cultures."
Location <NYC> Le Carrefour - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens
Above the bustle of the clerestory restaurant, tucked at the base of the bell tower, this indoor garden and library is out of the way and easily overlooked, sure to become a favored "hidden gem" of travel guides. Low bookshelves full of mythology, fairy tales, and folklore ring the central elevator shaft and the stairway spiraling around it like an easily navigable labyrinth. Beyond these are plants in a variety of tastefully whimsical containers, each with its own engraved plaque giving the common name, the scientific name, and their significance to various traditional stories and practices. The walls have been done away with so that the room extends beyond the doric columns into a surreal rooftop garden enclosed with glass stretching between the tower's massive buttresses. The arrangement of plantlife becomes less formal as one moves out into the four arms of the conservatory, visible containers giving way to beds and terraces and eventually landscapes carefully cultivated to look wild. There is plentiful seating scattered along the paths and just off of them, from proper benches to picturesque logs to surprisingly comfortable boulders. By day, myriad butterflies dance amongst the enchanted vegetation, and likewise moths by night. A shallow stream weaves throughout, feeding ponds that host plants of their own alongside fish, frogs, and turtles. Wandering the outer edges of the conservatory, one could almost feel lost in a mystical forest but for the stunning views of the cityscape beyond the glass. It's well past quitting time, but Anahita is still here, perched on the mossy log that serves as a bench at the end of the conservatory's western wing, surrounded by blue-purple forget-me-nots. Granted, she doesn't look to be working, and does not appear to be dressed for work in a soft white bell sleeve tunic and dip-dyed blue pinafore dress. She's kicked her sandals off and has a book open in her lap, though at the moment she's gazing out through the glass wall at a splendid vista of the Manhattan skyline backlit by the sinking sun that has also set the East River ablaze and painted the clouds luminous pink against a sky still pale blue. Anahita is soon to have company, though Damien is taking his time about wending his way nearer. He's following the erratic path of a mockingbird who has flitted in from outside and promptly forgotten the way back out, instead pecking hopefully along the path for bugs. Damien (far more colorful than his current avian companion, in a long purple brocade bandi over a long kurta of fine translucent pink muslin with matching churidar and tall black boots) has been, perhaps, talking to the bird, though too low to make out what he is saying. He stops, regardless, when after munching down a beetle the little mockingbird flits up and away to make its way back out through a high venting window. Only then does Damien wander nearer to Anahita, idly twisting his wrist one direction and then the other to jingle the copper bangles that rest there -- heat-treated in a rainbow of of colors, their quiet clinking is oddly musical, giving a strange impression at times of faint, distant singing. Damien's voice is lightly musical as well, when he greets warmly: "Ah, the water goddess! You've found such an enchanting view." It's the chiming of the bangles that draws Anahita's attention first, and though she does not smile when she turns she sounds quite pleased to see Damien. "It is. And somewhat improved, now. I am glad you found your way back." Her eyes wander down over him none too surreptitiously, and she tips her hand at the space beside her on the log. "Mumbai. Is that the magnificent city of your birth?" "I was meeting someone here -- but with all the magic this garden holds I am not surprised I have met you, too." Damien slips over, quiet except for the soft musical chime of his jewelry; around him his diaphanous kurta flows and ripples like water as he takes the indicated seat. He's not looking at Anahita but at the view, eyes bright and wide as he drinks it in. "Mumbai is a magnificent city. It left some beautiful stories etched onto my heart. Have you been?" Anahita has turned back to the sinking sun and the many-colored light it's spread over the landscape. "I think few can resist the siren call of the crossroads, once they have walked these paths in earnest." She darts a sidelong glance at Damien. "I have not had the pleasure. But I have heard some beautiful stories, and always hunger for more." Her fingertips play absently over the edge of the book's pages. "I owe you a story, and a name. But they can wait, if you have an appointment to keep." "My appointments tend to keep themselves," replies Damien, unconcerned. "And these crossroads' certainly have more than their own charm, but I have actually been seeking..." Damien trails off, here, his expression a little distant and his brows creased. "-- Do you know the proprietor, of this place?" -- "Damn." Joshua was not here, but now he is, in grudging confirmation of Damien's assertion. He's in jeans and worn old sneakers and a red tee shirt reading "דאַלױ פּאָליצײ" across the chest, one arm crossed across his chest and his phone in his other hand. He's staring at Damien and Anahita from beneath a flattened brow, face pulling down into slightly more of a droop than usual. "Tell me s'fucker didn't get you, too." "Very considerate of them. I doubt anyone could begrudge too much meeting here. But," Anahita allows easily, "I might be prejudiced." A smile brightens her dark eyes at the question, and there is a fond warmth in her voice when she replies. "Oh, yes. He is a kindred spirit. And." She cants her head, as though listening for the right words, or perhaps straining to hear the quiet song of Damien's jewelry. "He charged me with the keeping of this place. Though it is just as fair to say --" She only gives a small start at Joshua's abrupt appearance. "What a small city this is, at times. But what do you mean by 'get'?" Damien has been looking quite keen to hear what it's just as fair to say, though he doesn't seem particularly disappointed to be interrupted, either. He sits up straighter, clapping his hands together once (with an additional tinkling song from his bangles). "Ah, wonderf ---" He cuts himself off, head tilting and dark eyes flicking in brighter intrigue between Anahita and Joshua. "You know each other already, then?" His voice has warmed with amusement as he explains: "Last month I bested him in a game of pool, and he has not been best pleased with the loss." Joshua shoves his phone into his pocket, and does not dignify Damien's taunt with a reply. "He's slippery as fuck," is his non-explanation, and while this might easily be a compliment in another context, toward another person, there's a bitterness layered under his voice that Anahita hasn't heard before. "Why are we here." Anahita raises her eyebrows. "He is. A kindred spirit of a different kind. And a formidable opponent, but certainly no sore loser." She studies Damien with a quiet intensity some might find unnerving. "Ought I to be wary of your slipperiness?" She sounds just a touch wary already, but much more than a touch intrigued. "I am quite bad at pool." "Such a way of twisting words, in your cultures." There's a very disappointed but not surprised tone to Damien's words, to the small-sad shake of his head. "Where living by one's word is slippery and trying to renege is -- what, honesty?" His hands turn up and spread in front of him, eyes just a touch wider. "I think it always serves to be just-wary-enough, with strangers. And just-trusting-enough, too. Too far in the one direction and you will miss out on a lot of adventure -- too far in the other," he gives Joshua a mildly sympathetic look, "and you may be in a bit too much of one." He drops one hand back to his lap, the other wrist rotating slow again and his expression softening with his bangles' quiet chime. "We're here because I am on a quest. Centered around the -- evidently magical proprietor of these gardens. I had heard tell you were in his circles -- to find this lovely gardener is, as well, was just serendipity, I think." "I didn't --" Joshua begins, sharper, and this prickly defensiveness feels more aimed at convincing Anahita than Damien. He doesn't finish the thought though -- just stops, blinks, frowns deeper at Damien. "It wasn't..." is less sharp, this time, a definite uncertainty creeping into his voice. His sigh sounds a little defeated, after this. "Like adventures just fine. Don't like being anyone's prisoner." He drops a hand, fiddling restlessly with one of the knotted tassels hanging below his shirt. "Don't know him that well. Worked with his brother, some." Anahita arches an eyebrow at "your cultures", and looks very much like she might pursue that point, but at Joshua's more in-depth non-explanation she freezes. Her eyes dart from Joshua to Damien and then back, fixed steadily somewhere in the region of Joshua's sternum. "Is this man keeping you prisoner?" She sounds neither skeptical nor alarmed, just nonplussed. "Do you need help?" Her thumb riffles over the foot edge of the book, repetitive but too slow to look agitated. "What is your quest?" she asks cautiously. "I am not keeping him prisoner," Damien replies primly. "I am collecting on a wager. -- and paying it forward, as well. I made the acquaintance of another Mr. Tessier, the other day. Matthieu has been quite distraught about a falling-out he had with his brother. I have some talent with engineering serendipity -- I certainly can't repair a relationship but with everything they have been through of late, I thought I might at least offer to try." "Yes," Joshua replies, prompt and overlapping with Damien's reply. "S'got some kind of..." Here he trails off, though, color leeching from his face as Damien talks. His cheek twitches somewhere around Matt's name; at falling-out a sharp breath hisses out through his teeth. He's interrupting before Damien has quite finished speaking -- reaching down to yank the taller man bodily up off the log, fist curled hard into Damien's elegant tunic; his other fist has snapped up, teeth gritted hard against the three long bone-claws sliding out of his bloodied knuckles. Their sharp tips scrape at Damien's throat; Joshua's eyes have locked on Damien's a long moment before snapping sideways to Anahita. His grip doesn't ease. "Who the fuck is this guy." "A wager?" Anahita looks very much like she would like to pursue that point, but before she has a chance to even try interrupting the men, the claws are out. She staggers to her feet, and when the book (The Cult of the Fox) slips from her lap she catches it with surprising dexterity and clutches it to her chest. Her eyes are wide and terrified. "I have no --" She cuts herself off, this time. "He calls himself Damien, he likes plants, and he is not from Istanbul or Mumbai," all spills from her in one breath. "Does this mean you have the...being his prisoner part handled?" Damien's eyes go wider, but he doesn't otherwise seem all that alarmed by the manhandling, nor the very sharp claws at his throat. His eyes meet Joshua's steady and searching, and he lifts a hand to trace a fingertip light and curious against one edge of an outer bone-claw. "She has very nearly the sum of it." His voice is probably steadier than it ought to be, given the way speaking shifts his throat to press harder up against Joshua's claws. "Excepting this last -- I came to this city in search of my son. You seem strangely protective, for one who claims not to know him well." "Your -- fucking -- what?" Joshua drops his hand and takes a quick step backwards. He's looking to Anahita as if she might be able to throw some light on this brand new Damien Fact, unlikely though it is. His eyes scrunch; he starts to lift a hand to rub at them with his knuckles but (thankfully) the claws scrape light at his forehead before he digs one of his own eyes out. He drops his hand with a sigh (and a small drip-drip-drip of blood on the path), and drags his other palm down against the side of his face. His jaw is working slowly as he turns over many further questions in his mind, but the only one that comes out, suspicious, is: "Matt, too?" Anahita's eyes flick back and forth between the men again. She does not react immediately to the new information. When she does it is only to furrow her brows and squint at Damien skeptically, though even that is derailed by her relief at the removal of claws from throat. "His mother is a gardener," is all she can offer when Joshua looks to her for answers. She almost physically intervenes when he lifts his clawed hand to his face, then relaxes again when he catches himself. This of all things is what helps her retrieve her wits. "Please put those away before you put someone's eye out," she suggests evenly before turning her attention back to Damien. "Does Lucien know about this quest of yours? Does he even know you are his father?" "You've wounded yourself," Damien says first, with a gentle but clear concern as he looks down to the knuckles that were so very recently attempting to threaten his life. "We should see to that." He is turning away, drifting a few steps down the path, one hand outstretched to lightly brush against the delicate bell of a columbine flower. "I gather from his brother's reaction to the information that he knows nothing of me. I certainly knew nothing of his existence, until recently. I cannot exactly feel grateful to the Brood for their savageries, but I am glad that fortune put him in the news in such a way as to reach my attention." He lifts his hand, now, pressing light to his throat where Joshua's claws had touched, and then he is turning back to face the others. "I am not so arrogant as to think he will simply welcome my presence after a lifetime of absence, but I had -- not predicted so violent a reaction, either. What is this man, to you?" Joshua doesn't immediately put the claws away -- he looks down at them, at the dripping blood, briefly frowning like he has forgotten how that got there. He does go sit, taking the seat he had pulled Damien out of. "Fuck." He's flexing his fingers, below the claws, then immediately wincing like he very much regrets that decision. The heel of his other hand grinds against one eye. "Don't know him well. He's -- been solid to -- lot of my community. A long time." He drops his hand to his lap and grimaces down at his other -- slowly, finally, the claws slide back in, leaving three jagged tears still bloody between his knuckles. "Knew his brother much better. I thought." He's still wincing as he curls his fingers in again. "Matt murdered him. Guess he left that out of the. Falling-out." Anahita puts down the book and conjures a first aid kit from somewhere. She sits down beside Joshua and pulls on a pair of blue nitrile gloves before gesturing peremptorily for his injured hand. When he does not immediately comply she starts plucking the relevant items from the meticulously packed little kit. She freezes again at Joshua's explanation, eyes going wide, fingers squeezing hard at the gauze pad in her hands, the package crinkling in complaint. "That is." She does not say what "that" is or is not is, diverting instead to, "You are certain." Her voice is faint and the interrogative uplift of intonation also faint. Her hands unclench, her breathing slows, and she starts to reach for his hand. Then stops. In Spanish, now, her accent straying all over the Americas, "{Joshua. Give me your hand. Let me clean that up, at least. Please.}" Damien's eyes have gone slightly narrower. His expression has not otherwise much shifted, but the quiet coolness to his tone now is stark. "You are certain." This comes nearly in time with Anahita, more a soft musing than a question, even if his following, "I had the impression he was still alive," has a mildly curious lilt. He trails one finger lightly across his stack of bangles, their jingling reverberating a little longer with this motion. "Do you think he is still a danger?" Joshua doesn't respond to Anahita's gesturing -- doesn't really even seem to notice it. His eyes are fixed on the Manhattan skyline across the river, his jaw tighter. "I'm sure." He's still opening and closing his fingers slowly, kind of heedless of the stains his jeans will have where the bleeding is now dripping onto the denim. "Was dead." He shakes his head, lifting his hand to rub at his cheek again -- no claws this time, thankfully, but the smear of blood on his cheek seems to finally reorient him to what Anahita is talking about. He holds his hand out, with a critical frown down at his knuckles for their failure. His other shoulder hitches up, uncertain ."Thought they were close. No idea what happened. But --" His frown is deepening. "Was no damn OD. He was fucking brutalized. SOP for any accidental death is for the ME to look into it. A lot of people looked at a broken, violated corpse and signed off on ignoring it. That's dangerous, whatever's next." His eyes lift to Damien even as his shoulders sink -- kind of deflating as if this retelling has taken most of his earlier fire with it. "You still wanna fuck with that bastard, I'm out." Anahita takes Joshua's hand with some evident relief and goes about irrigating and disinfecting the deep puncture wounds. She does not look up at the men, but her hands tighten on Joshua's, briefly but painfully, as he describes the state in which he found Lucien. "They were exceptionally close," she confirms quietly. "That is not why I have such a hard time believing it." Her words come slower and more deliberate. "Whatever their relation, if he can brutally murder a well-to-do, famous white man and get away with it, then he is a danger to our whole community." She presses a fresh gauze pad to Joshua's knuckles and wraps it carefully. "He is much trusted and beloved, but I am sure Jackson and Ryan would not stand for this. Neither would Cha --" She tapes off the gauze and clasps her hands together to disguise their shaking. "Professor Xavier." "People will stand for all kinds of horrors, when they come in the correct packaging." Damien is looking, now, at Anahita's shaking hand, and at Joshua's bloodied one. "You would risk a lot, for the sake of this man at your periphery." This sounds decidedly like a compliment and not a criticism. He pushes himself up away from the flowers with a fluid grace. "You are not my prisoner, and I've no intention of asking you to violate your morals. I am, regrettably, as bound to my word as you are." He doesn't actually sound all that regretful; just a thoughtful slant to his tone. "But then, there are so very many ways for a wish to come true."