Logs:Nefarious

Nefarious
Dramatis Personae Fury, Lucien
In Absentia Jax, Ryan, Shane, B, Steve	2023-05-20 "I am mighty curious what on God's green Earth you mean by 'all the rest'?"
Location <PRV> The Belfry - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria
Nestled just below the belfry and above the gardeners' workshop and storage rooms, this penthouse apartment is accessible only at the proprietor sufferance via a special panel in the elevator and a locked utility stairway. The whole of it is psi-shielded, and equipped with a largely unused power suppression grid as well. Spanning one and a half levels, this space could be mistaken for an extension of the conservatory below, with plentiful bookshelves and greenery spilling from every nook, but even a cursory examination will reveal the personal touches that went into its design, softening the neoclassical aesthetic of the building at large with paradoxically fastidious whimsy. The elevator shaft bridging the full level and the loft is, save for the doors, encased in the coral reef of an immense cylindrical aquarium that houses a thriving tropical community. The sitting room immediately adjoining this is bright and airy, open to the empty half of the story above, with a plush circular sectional couch, a low tea table, a sideboard and a bar, its walls covered with lush trellises where not taken up with recessed bookshelves. Opposite the oceanic entryway on the western wall, tall french doors lead to a crescent balcony with views of the waterfront and city beyond as well as the restaurant terrace and garden far below. To either side of the doors, floor to ceiling waterfall windows feed twin pools connected under a thick glass floor panel, an indoor pond lined with smooth river stones and stocked with hardy freshwater fish. On the other end of the apartment, tucked under the loft and behind the elevator shaft, is a large kitchen bracketed by a pantry on one end and a breakfast nook on the other, its culinary conveniences--even the the refrigerator and ovens--hidden behind opaque glass panels that light up at a touch with lists of their contents. An elegant floating stairway spirals up around the elevator cum aquarium, its balusters and those of the loft's railing above twined with well-trained philodendrons. The long wall of the loft showcases a variety of bows from historical and modern, humble to ornate. A no-nonsense workshop at one end of this gallery stores the less picturesque archery paraphernalia as well as a wide range of tools, striking a quaint contrast with the cozier if no less utilitarian study at the other end. Open offset doorways at either end lead to a capacious bedroom with a king sized bed, its walls graced with myriad orchids and other epiphytes in Greek sconces. The generously sized bathroom is tiled with mosaic scenes from classical mythology and has an entire corner dedicated to the antique clawfoot tub. The walk-in closet is similarly generous, with specialized storage for every imaginable accessory, and a hidden staircase leading to the belfry above and the exit below. It is quite late, but so it goes, on a Friday. Lucien has had time to shower since returning from the theatre, though perhaps not so long past; his hair is still slightly damp and crisp sandalwood-citrus smell fresh on his skin. Perhaps in another lifetime, with Saturday just around the corner, this would be time for pajamas and winding down, but at the moment he is instead in the kitchen, in tailored straight-leg blue jeans and a very soft short-sleeve grey henley. He's whisking up a small bowl of chili-garlic sauce, presumably for the jiaozi that are in the steamer; there is something in the slow cooker as well, though that is as yet a mystery. The Riesling on the table is not. He has been having a conversation in only mildly irritated Spanish with the earpiece tucked into one ear -- not so much audible in his quiet voice but notable, at least, in the tenser set of his shoulders, the sauce he is giving a sterner whisking that it surely deserves -- someone on the other end has failed in some task. Someone on the other end is, from context, no doubt definitely, assuredly, going to do it this time, in short order. Probably by the time he ends the call Lucien is unconvinced. He is sending a quick text with one hand as with the other he decants the sauce into two much smaller individual dipping bowls, one matte in black and gold and the other matte in black and silver. Almost starts to dial again but with a glance at the clock, perhaps, thinks better of it and takes the earpiece out of his ear. "Apologies." It's probably not for the phone call. The phone is coming to the table along with the sauce, along with the dumplings, once they have been transferred to a serving plate. "It is rather late for a meal, but --" Lucien frowns at the table. Frowns at the wine. "Water. That is what I forgot." Fury has been wandering around the expansive apartment while his host finished up in the kitchen, stopping to peruse a bookshelf here or shake his head mild incredulity at a water feature there, as if he hasn't been here before. He's dressed in a black button-down with a subtle windowpane pattern visible in texture alone and an actual real pair of jeans -- also in black, of course -- his black duster hanging by the door. His path brings him back at the table just about as Lucien's call concludes, though he does not sit. "Go on sit your overachieving ass down, I'll get the water. Hell, that space age refrigerator probably pour it for me if I ask real polite." He does not ask the refrigerator for water, just waves his hand kind of suspiciously at the (also smart) faucet and fills two glasses. "Was all that noise that for your rock star or your superhero?" He frowns as he sets the glasses down. "S'pose I shouldn't assume it weren't hotel-related yelling, being as you're new to this whole 'bein' in charge' business and allergic to delegatin'." "It will pour you the water." Lucien's tone has not much shifted from its quiet solemnity. In tone he might well be as contrite about this fact as about his neglect of the water. There is a slight and just as solemn widening of his eyes as he tells Fury, gravely: "You can also politely request the faucet to measure it for you. Temperature and ounces, both. Cups. Pints. Metric, if you swing that way." The faucet submits to being waved at, all the same. Lucien submits to having water poured for him, and takes a seat. Checks his phone again, sends another message before flipping it over. Then, on second thought, flipping it back. "I delegate. The hotel has quite an extensive staff who run -- many things I've no idea how to run. I could not begin to tell you how they manage the restaurant, but it seems to be going quite well." He tips a hand up and out toward Fury, a touch of amusement glimmering in his eyes. "You are not new to this whole being in charge business and still I find you at the office at 3 a.m. on a Saturday night. Perhaps it is a common allergy." The shake of Fury's head is so vividly curmudgeonly it practically says "back in my day" for him. "Back in my day," he says, all the same, "we had to pump the water up out the well by hand and I felt a sight less silly bellyaching about it." If he feels called out in the least it does not show. "It don't hardly compare, seeing as I only got the one job and I keep it in the office. Anyhow, you was finding Mr. Holland, not me, and you might save me some midnight oil in the future if you encouraged his other friends to at least keep up the appearance of respecting regulations I'll get held responsible for them breaking." There isn't any censure these words, still spoken in the blustery timbre of his bellyaching. "Though I don't suppose Ryan Black would listen to you, and them Holland kids sure as hell wouldn't." "Ryan Black listens to very few people," Lucien concedes. "At least half the time I am one of them. As I would like it to remain that way, I have the good sense not to try and keep him away from Jackson Holland, at whatever hour of the night he has a mind to visit." He is serving some of the dumplings, now, onto Fury's plate first and then his own. "But, if it will save you some late nights, I will try to be encouraging." One of his eyebrows hitches up slightly, eyes flicking to Fury as he starts to uncork the wine. "Unlikely as it seems that anyone will be coming to hold you responsible. The twins certainly are not talking, and Ryan does not currently have access to any of his social media accounts." "I got no illusions any regs could contain Holland if he got it in his mind to up and leave, and that ain't why I want appearances kept up." Fury finally eases himself down into his chair, a process that might have been less painful if he were not trying to pretend his back isn't acting up. "DHS don't scrutinize how we running this detention too close on account of after that PR nightmare with HAMMER, they'd rather keep their distance. But if some egregious breach of ours made it into the news, good money says they'd pounce in hopes that making us look like fuckups will exonerate them somehow." He throws up his hands, a gesture somewhere between surrender and celebration, and switches his accent to Standard American, "'See, it wasn't just us!'" He drops his radio broadcast ready voice and his hands, palms turning up in resignation. "Like I done told Holland, all it'd take is a particularly determined journalist with a drone and an agenda, or some stalker hell bent on breaking up him and Captain Fucking America. Or Ryan Fucking Black." "Mmm." Lucien's head inclines, just a small acknowledgment of this concern. He returns his attention to the careful uncorking of the wine. Careful pouring, too. "I have had some small practice at dealing with Ryan's cadre of blackguards, and if there is a journalist out there more determined than I am, it will be either a very long night or a tremendously entertaining one when I meet them. Perhaps both." He sets one of the wine glasses down in front of Fury and retakes his seat with considerably less pain, though a touch of weary relief all the same. "If there are further mishaps, I will handle them like all the rest. It is, occasionally, in my personal interest --" When he picks up his wine glass he tips it brief and indicative in Fury's direction, though he isn't quite looking at the other man, eyes lowered instead towards his plate, towards his glass when he takes a long draught. "-- to free some of your nights from office worries." "So, when my PR folks report no mishaps of the sort, that's on account of you ain't even told 'em." Fury takes up his own wine glass, brows raised unevenly, the slight dip of the heavily scarred left side making him look just slightly skeptical. "You undoubtedly saved me a lot of work, but being as I didn't know that, I was still bracing for incidents, which, against all odds, kept not happening. Turns out it weren't sheer stupid luck, but you freein' up my nights for your own nefarious purposes." His eyes remain fixed on Lucien as he sips his wine. "I am mighty curious what on God's green Earth you mean by 'all the rest'?" Lucien plucks up one of his dumplings, dipping one corner fastidiously into his sauce. "I mean the steady succession of snoops dying for a shocking story about Jackson, or SHIELD, or the abject failures of someone to properly contain the mutant threat. Likely he is fraternizing with terrorists, likely you are terribly lax in your oversight, likely your staff has been beguiled and converted to the side of his anarchist rebellion. Unsavory characters sneaking in at all hours. The meticulously fabricated identity of your deputy director. The clandestine affair you must be hiding. People so often think they have their next Pulitzer in hand -- or at the very least, a solid payday from the Inquirer. Shutting down their snooping entirely would make them all the more certain of their theories. I only -- nudge them along to some very flavorless conclusions." He has seemed fairly untroubled through this recounting, but sets his chopsticks back down, now, dumpling as yet untouched. For a moment he studies his plate, then looks up at Fury. "-- ought I to have told them?" The slight furrow of his brows, slight tilt of his head, seems an entirely genuine sort of puzzlement. "Your people seem busy enough without troubling them with my work. I had rather assumed they had their hands full keeping everyone in the dark about shadow dimensions full of demons or aliens coming to use this planet as their breeding ground or cosmic beings that devour planets or any number of things too classified for the rest of us to know. They make sure the world does not hear of those calamities, and I make sure --" He gestures with a vague outward tip of his hand. "The world does not hear of what it takes within your walls to stop them. It is what you pay me for, non?" Fury evinces no hesitation attacking his own dumplings, though his chewing slows as he listens to Lucien's list, his eye widening slightly. He takes a sip of his wine and, somewhere between "deputy director" and "clandestine affair", nearly chokes on it, though he manages not to cough too much and just gulps down water about it instead. In the midst of this recovery, he notably does not suffer any near-spittakes over "shadow dimensions" or "devour planets". His next drink is longer, both the glass and the movement of muscles in the process obscuring the rapid shift of his expression. "I do surely pay you for that," he agrees, once he's set the glass back down and once his face returned to its resting not-quite-scowl. "I expected my agents to be more involved, but I ain't never tol' you that. Just figured you'd need 'em pointing you at fires needed puttin' out, and maybe supporting you with both man and machine power. Clearly I underestimated you yet again. You ain't wrong about their focus, but you might do well all the same to tell 'em some of what you're up to." He leans forward, one hand braced on the edge of the table, his single eye fixed intently on Lucien. "Some," he reiterates with a deceptively light touch of emphasis, though his tone softens considerably when he adds, "Highly 'peciate your discretion about Maria. And me, for that matter. Ain't neither of those our PR folks' business." Lucien's phone is blinking; he is quick to glance at it, quick to dismiss the notification with a small sinking of his shoulders. When he looks back to Fury, though, there is a glimmer of amusement in his eyes; the very faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Machine power," he echoes, with just a touch of affront. "I have been a stage actor since well before my Broadway days, Director Fury, I am well used to weaving people a story without all that fuss." The next slow sip of his wine does not quite cover the trace of pink that rises to his cheek, faded again by the time he sets down his glass. "Mmm. This is why I do not trouble them with my business." His forefinger has started to trace lightly against the base of the wine glass; he stops after drawing one slow circle, curling his knuckles in against the table. "I could file incident reports, if that would reassure them." A small and speculative pause. "Lack of incident reports. Forgive me, with Ryan this is somehow much more chaotic and much more straightforward." "I ain't tryna diss your magic, but you can't tell me you ain't never had an incident that could'a benefitted from making something or someone trend instantly." This time the slightly skeptical lift of Fury's right brow is (or at least appears) more deliberate. "Or taking down a server, or cell tower, or whatever else them hackers get up to in the name of changing spaceships into weather balloon. Jus cuz y'all's focus is different, don't mean you can't share resources." He considers Lucien for a beat, his expression largely opaque, though observably less disgruntled than his usual baseline. "At the end of the day, I pay you for your expertise, which has averted both disaster and embarrassment for us. Ain't nothin' gone sideways yet on account of you not telling Information Management what information you done managed by your lonesome." He picks up his wine glass again and tips it at Lucien as if to undeline, "Use your own best judgment whether my folks could do with knowing. I don't need no incident reports, though I s'pose I would rather you tell me if you avert any tomfoolery relatin' to my own person." He drinks and starts to return to his dumplings, then looks back up at Lucien. "And maybe I don't need to know this, but I surely would like to know who the hell been goin' after Agent Hill, and how." "Mmm." Lucien is glancing to his once-more-blinking phone, though this time without enough hope to be disappointed by the time he clears its notification. "With Ryan there are fewer hackers at my disposal," he allows. "And I will be certain in future to tell you --" Here he cuts himself off, looking back at Fury with an expression quite Deliberately Opaque. "Clarification. If I am the one who is visiting the tomfoolery upon your person, do I still need to tell you that?" There is less opacity in the amusement that threads itself through his voice. "I admittedly have no plans tonight to avert it. Nefarious purposes, after all." "That so?" Fury's eye fixes on Lucien with keen and unblinking interest. "I would like especially thorough intel of any tomfoolery on your part." He braces his elbow on the table and leans forward conspiratorially, "Fact, best you demonstrate in lieu of a written report, so as to stop you prevaricatin'. You are mighty shrewd, but I know from nefarious purposes." He sounds deadly serious, but there's only hunger and anticipation in the curl of his smile. "And you know they say 'bout age and treachery."