Logs:Proshot
| Proshot | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2021-12-09 "What kind of a man does that?" |
| Location
<HFC> Concierge's Office - Hfc Ground Floor | |
The space is small, luxuriously appointed, if rather mild by the standards of the Clubhouse at large. There's little in the way of the chess theme here, just dark wood polished to almost mirror-like finishes, rich leather upholstery, and a splendid view of the garden. Decor is minimal beyond the shelves of beautifully bound antique volumes and a few white marble replicas of classical statuary: Melpomene and Thalia framing the desk from their perches on the shelves behind it, and Ganymede watering Zeus in the form of an eagle on the otherwise unadorned sideboard. It's early in the morning -- elsewhere the Club is catering to those who like that sort of thing, the gym full of fitness-minded overachievers, the several dining rooms offering an exquisite spread to perpetually exacting guests. The concierge is Not In, right now; at least that's what the sign on the door would have you think, and more than one disgruntled out-of-town socialite has already come and give away complaining of this fact. The sign might be a lie, for on the other side of the door here is Lucien -- decidedly not fulfilling any of the members' demands, though he looks ready for work in his usual outfit of tailored grey suit in simple, understated lines. He isn't at his desk but setting a tray down on the coffee table -- the rich scents of hot coffee and tea both curling up from the cups that sit alongside an assortment of pastries. "Apologies," he is demurring, (sincere? sarcastic? his soft tone is much the same as it ever is) "for the surroundings, only I should rather my siblings not -- be subjected to all this." Clint is not a morning person or an elite social club person, but here he is all the same, in a nice and well-fitted if somewhat underwhelming black suit and purple tie. He's made a leisurely orbit of the office, pausing to study the replica of Ganymede and Zeus, but with the beverages ready he comes to claim a cup of black coffee for himself before sinking down onto the luxurious leather couch. "S'cool. Beats the crap out of the cold pizza and burnt coffee I would have had for breakfast at home." He inhales the aroma of the (not burnt!) coffee appreciatively and darts a sidelong glance at Lucien's other guest. "Can't imagine this is gonna be pleasant for anyone." Mild, and mildly concerned. If Clint isn't a social club person, then Lily definitely isn't. She's well underdressed for the swanky energy of the Hellfire Club; she's in a red cable knit sweater, slightly pilled and slightly faded--probably just as well given that a brighter shade would make its wear or look washed out--over a white blouse that is difficult to distinguish from a man's dress shirt just by the collar that shows over the sweaters rounded neck, plain but serviceable gray slacks, and scuffed black boots. Her hair is neatly plaited down the back of her head, a little bit of makeup drawing attention away from the bags under her eyes. Her posture on the other side of the couch from Clint is more formal than is altogether necessary. She fidgets with her bag, her laptop and numerous USB flashdrives and hard drives clattering within. "It's nice," Lily says, with a little bit of nervous energy. She takes the offered coffee and sips. "Feels a bit too nice for what we have to do." "By the standards of this Club, I assure you this is quite humble." There's something just a little dry in Lucien's tone. "It would not be fitting for the servants to think too highly of themselves." He sets the lone tea cup apart from the others, moves to swivel the monitors on his desk -- three of them -- around to face outward. "I do not expect it will be pleasant -- nor, perhaps, what might come after. I do not know that there will be reprisals when this story hits the news, but I strongly suspect that more than a few people will not look kindly on the sources that aided in whistleblowing, here. I've no doubt my media contact will be discreet but -- these people have quite a long reach, as well." Clint's "huh" probably could have been a laugh; maybe it would have been, if he were better caffeinated. He's working on that now, even if a small wince tells that the coffee is still a touch too hot for the gulp he just took. "These people," he opines, "need a good kick in the teeth. I think I've got a good idea what I'm risking, and the resources to protect myself." His next glance at Lily is somewhat less surreptitious. "Not sure how deep in this you are, though, or how much your danger of exposure." "Feel free to kick mine in, then. I was one of them." Lily's voice is carefully level as she says this, but her hands shake as she pulls out her laptop, stacking black hard drives on the side of the coffee table. "I'm not too worried about my safety, here. My career's shot to hell either way." "If you plan to start fisticuffs, outside, please." Lucien does not tsk, but there's something of it in his voice all the same. "I have an image to keep up in here and blood spatters on my furniture wouldn't suit it at all." He hooks Lily's laptop up to the monitors, producing a small metal USB drive -- familiar already to Clint, at least -- from a pocket and adding it to the mix. "Whatever your feelings on your safety, surely there are other people to whom it matters?" Nothing has changed in the neutral calm of his voice, and his hands are steady enough as he picks up his tea. Traces slow small circles against the warm china with his forefinger. Finally takes a seat in an armchair catacorner from Lily at the coffee table. Clint's expression does not much change at Lily's offer, the intensity of his gaze notwithstanding. "I'm not above a good kicking if it needs done, but it's not really my brand. I'm just supplying a boot this time, and anyway..." He shrugs. "I was one of them, too, technically." A minuscule pause. "S'how I met your brother. And how I got that." He tips his head in the direction of the drive Lucien produced. "If you need help with contingency plans against getting Chelsea Manning'd, I've got some expertise." "Right. Sorry." Lily dips her head down for a moment, pushing one edge of a hard drive so it lines up a little more with the one below it. "I didn't realize." At the mention of her brother her other hand tightens against her leg. "I don't -- maybe it would be good to shield my other siblings. But none of them are --" Lily frowns, cuts off the sentence too early. "What's on there?" "None of them are --?" Lucien's brows lift, fractionally. "Concerned about your well-being? I gather you have quite a few." His fingers press just a little tighter against his cup, stilling briefly before continuing their small circles. "Surveillance. Audio -- and video." Something has gentled in his voice when he continues: "It is from Blackburn. I will understand if you wish to leave before we review it." "I didn't exactly edit for content." Clint still sounds exceedingly mild. "Figured that might defeat the point." He takes a long drink of coffee. "There's some footage of Dawson. Out of respect for him if nothing else, I'd rather if you didn't get indefinitely detained." He shrugs again. "Your life, though." Whatever Lily has to say about her siblings is forgotten. "Blackburn. Okay." She breathes in, out. "Maybe a contingency plan. Sure." She doesn't sound too concerned about that, eyes focused on the footage. "I-- I would like to see it." Lucien's eyes have narrowed very faintly on Lily. The path his fingertip has been tracing against the side of his cup grow a little less even, slightly jerkier figure-eights, now. "I am not trying," is all he says to her, quietly, "to get anyone's life ruined or ended here. Rather the opposite." He doesn't look to the monitors. Just down to his tea, and then to Clint. "Distasteful as it may be, any editorializing you can provide will be very helpful when it comes to winnowing out the --" His lips compress. "-- useful footage from the chaff." It's only then that he plugs in the drive, starts up a video. "I don't think they'll go after your family, but we can talk details. Later." Clint still looks nonchalant, though a keen eye will note his shoulders have relaxed--just a fraction. The video starts out with a timestamped passenger's-eye-view of a car bumping down a country road toward a facility with a sign that reads "Blackburn Research Laboratory", flanked by smaller, familiar shield-shaped "US PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING" signs. So far, so mundane. Clint gestures for the keyboard and deftly uses the arrow keys to fast-forward. "There's a lot paperwork and orientation, some of which is useful on a technical level, but not for convincing the American public this is evil. They try pretty hard to convince employees it's not evil." He returns the playback to normal speed on what actually still looks like orientation, a person in custodian overalls walking Clint down a still-mundane hallway, blandly explaining special procedures for entering, cleaning, and maintaining "subject-facing spaces." As they turn a corner, though, they encounter a pair of stone-faced guards escorting two subjects in beige scrubs: a mouse of a young man with a buzz cut and a tall, a pale young woman...with green hair. Polaris jerks away from one of the guards. "Touch me again and I will bite your fingers off," she snarls. Neither guard seems much perturbed, one resting a hand idly on his gun while the other draws his baton, his answering threat implicit as they pass the custodians by. If Clint's relaxed, Lily is the opposite -- even the first site of the facility, the familiar to her logos, causes her to tense. "Yeah. They're pretty good at that." She nods along with the fast forwarded paperwork -- "That's the same NDA, I think. It looks similar to mine." She leans forward more, elbows pressed to her thighs. It's the sight of the shock of green hair that makes Lily's eyes go wide and skin drain of color. "Oh," she breathes -- the footage rolls on, past other faces Lily recognizes and testing rooms. It's not so much the actions that steal her breath as it is the people. There's a face missing, though -- "Where is Dawson?" If Lucien is relaxed or tense it is difficult to discern; he sits as upright in his chair as ever, sipping slowly at his tea. Gets up only to retrieve a slender tablet from his desk; as the footage rolls he's jotting down some notes. Lily's question draws his eyes back to the screen -- slightly narrowed, on a broad tattooed guard with short-cropped hair who is currently looking none too pleased that he's been assigned to loom menacingly over a testing session of Leo's. Leo himself looks very little like the snapshots of him that have been plastered all over the news, emaciated and sallow, skin pocked with scars and sores. The fact that he's largely listless at the commands being barked at him it has not stopped an almost palpable fear from gripping the guards observing. Lucien peels his eyes away from the guard, back down to his tablet. Not watching as the man escorts Leo (far more roughly than necessary) out of the room. Not watching as the guard finds and vents his frustrations on Dawson later. The cameras are watching, though. Clint--in the present, in the flesh--scrubs his knuckles across his chin, as closed to an agitated fidget as he will evidently let himself get. "I'm--sorry. Most of the really gruesome..." He gestures kind of helplessly at the screen. "...came from remote surveillance equipment I installed while cleaning." He drains his coffee but does not put the cup down. "Though some of what they were willing to let the cleaning staff see was bad enough, and they got less restrained around me as I became a more familiar face. Besides, people will say a lot when they think you can't hear them." He does not sound particularly triumphant about this. Color is draining out of Lily's face with every new clip, fingertips pressing into her forearms where they cross over her knees until they turn white. Is she listening to Clint? It seems to not really register -- she only acknowledges his comment with a brief nod. There's a lull in the horrorshow -- glimpses of the cafeteria, the rec room, smaller things, interactions between inmates. Lily reaches out and hits pause on one frame, Dawson at a table with some more familiar faces. "I -- what's this. What's going on, there? Is he --what, preaching or something?" Lucien does look back up at this. He studies Dawson's face on the screen, then Lily's in front of him. "Did he do much of that?" He sounds genuinely curious. His stylus has paused between his fingers. "His Blackburn compatriots still seemed to like him well enough." He fast forwards unerringly to the moment Dawson enters, bruised and stiff, carrying a Bible. For all that Clint had watched the more graphic footage without flinching, he looks down now as Dawson signs his thanks to the camera--to Clint. The labrat talking to the both of them begins the conversation bitter and leaves it with something like hope. Clint pauses the playback again. "He touched a lot of lives, and for a man of such faith to do that without preaching? Kinda makes you think, I guess." He smiles thinly. "Made me think, anyway. It's not as obvious if you don't sign, but he was pumping me for information, and still sincerely interested in my well-being, when for all he knew I was just an aid to his captors. What kind of a man does that?" Lily doesn't have an answer for Clint's question. She's squinting at the screen as it keeps rolling, rolling, rolling through scenes of torture juxtaposed with quiet, horror slam-cut into hope. Her breathing quickens on the more graphic parts, doesn't stop in the quiet. Reaches for her coffee, tries to lift it with a trembling hand, puts it back down when the liquid sloshes too high. "Heavenly Father forgive me," she whispers, half voiced and meant for no earthly ears. "He looks -- how is he --" She's not crying, not exactly, but her eyes are wide and wet and her shoulders shake, swallowing hard before attempting to speak to Luci and Clint again. "How much of this --" she pauses again, slamming the spacebar on a frame of Dawson with two other men, one slightly familiar to her that's wiry and tan, another making himself seem small in his posture, "-- do we need to share? How much of him?" Lucien is still taking notes, occasionally glancing up at Lily's quiet gasps. Though he is quiet, his grip on his stylus has tightened noticeably. "I would not wish to run this without the permission of his family," he replies mildly, "but Dawson himself is a powerful and sympathetic witness to what transpired there. He gave most of his life to fighting this cause. I imagine if his experience could be used to bring them down --" He tips his hand up. Drops it, back to his tea. His next sip is slow; he flicks a glance at Clint over the rim of his cup. "What kind of a man?" His eyebrows have lifted fractionally; he's looking back to the screen, at the book Dawson so often carried with him. "Clearly, a Saint." | |
