Logs:Matters of Opportunity
| Matters of Opportunity | |
|---|---|
cn: Murder / Gun Violence | |
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-11-08 "Let's fraternize." |
| Location
on a large chessboard | |
5 november. hfc sanctum. "-- this move has been in the works for a time now, of course." Elie is leaning just a little in, intimating this over tea to her Rook as if this discussion, somehow, here in the quiet seclusion of the lounge, is more deeply confidential than all the confidential things they've already been discussing. The affectation does not last overlong; she is sitting back in a rustle of silk and sipping slowly at her tea. "But the good Doctor's schedule has had some rapid shifts this week and I think it will give us a perfect window. Tell me Raleigh will be back by Thursday, non?" Her brows lift. "Our erstwhile Bishop is having a week of his own, and if we could get both those items crossed off this week -- well. I would rest easier without his constant attempts at meddling." "Will Raleigh be sober again by Thursday, that's a better question." Their erstwhile Bishop is definitely not sitting across from Elie, and yet. Here is Lucien, draped languid in the bench and rolling his wrist slowly, his tea swirling lightly in its clear cup. He's absently been flicking through some election coverage but looks back up with a soft hum. "I suppose it would be less of a payday if your son pulls more of his tricks." There's a very faint pinch at the corners of his brilliant green eyes, a very faint wryness pulling at his voice. "I don't suppose you're interested in taking up pottery? Capoeira? We'll need to find something new to pass the time without him keeping us on our toes." David sets his tea back on the table, pinky finger still raised, dark eyes glinting pleased and interested when he flicks them up at Elie again; his posture is as easy and relaxed as the others', though when he sits back it is with a series of slow, outwardly-rippling movements, through his shoulders and his elbows and wrists before he just tippy-taps his fingertips atop the back of the bench. Still it's not restless so much as idle. "This week? My, but you move fast. They do say such flattering things about working mothers, don't they?" His gaze flutters toward !Lucien, then back. "I'm sure the lady will do just fine." --- 5 november. hfc sanctum. "Murder is blasé," Zeyta opines with casual indifference, much more invested in a focused scrutinization of her (impecabble) cuticle beds. "I'll have you know, the second worst crime in the world is boredom--the first is being a 'bore'." All around them, countless television displays encompassing every major news outlet in the media room of the inner sanctum flash with election updates, juxtaposing widespread anxiety to the steel indifference of the apathetic one percent. The din of commotion drowns out a private exchange in the otherwise open space, where, sprawled on a chaise lounge, she leans closer, coupe glass of club soda with a sprig of rosemary swaying. "So tell me, how is this business going to provide any sort of thrill or excitement? I'll move on it--it's not as if I've any pressing concerns tonight." Her gaze pans to her company, patient but expectant. Daiki is sitting across from Zeyta, though he'd largely ignored her until now. As though the large screens weren't enough, he has two holoprojectors hovering near at hand. One of them shows a stock ticker and the other, a list of drug patents. He's been scribbling on a slim tablet, and his stylus pauses, his eyes slipping sideways to her. "To each their own, but there will be plenty of exciting fallout. To balm his guilt, the Good Doctor has long used his influence and prestige to keep his family's flagship drugs accessible to average consumers -- and so less profitable than their stockholders would like." He taps something on his screen and flicks it at the projector with the patents, which transitions to display a jagged line chart trending sharply up. "This is a model for Toure Pharmaceuticals' stock once the dispositions of all those patents falls to a more business-minded scion. And we know when that turning point will come." David has his own tablet propped on his leg, his ankle crossed across the other knee; he's swiping with one finger between stock tickers, the flicks of his finger a little impetuous; his other hand is slowly swirling a highball glass of ginger beer, garnished with a mint leaf and tiny flakes of edible gold, the ice clinking quietly and oddly melodically. "Is this quid pro quo?" he muses, and flashes Zeyta a pleasant but vacuous smile; his teeth are starkly white even against the current pallor of his complexion, washed out as it is by red-white-blue screens at every turn. "The market is a matter of time, my dear, but sometimes also a matter of opportunity." --- 6 november. chimaera arts. Normally, by this hour, Chimaera would be considerably quieter. Though it's still quiet (ish) today it's hardly empty, but the ongoing Election Results have put a severe pall over the crowd of hippies and punks and deliberately Weird™ artists who've been milling around to take in election results together. In the big room, in the courtyard outside, there's a lot of flowing alcohol and a lot of bitterness. Here in this small side classroom, though, David(?) is looking not at all despairing. Something about the fluttery eagerness, the breathy delight in his voice, should feel out of place here in this house of leftist despair and yet. "-- Not that I don't have the utmost faith, of course, in our Knights. Bringing us a little joy on this terrible day, mm?" He's darting a largely performative look at the door, which nobody is opening to interrupt them. "Really, whoever said money can't buy happiness couldn't afford anyone to dispose of their miseries." "Most people can't afford this kind of thing." Wendy is taking a break from collective despair to sort through a pile of financial tedium before the morning. She's perched cross-legged on a table, framed in between several enormous puppets lolling eerie and abandoned in haphazard array against the walls. "Or else a lot more of his mad science cohort would be getting their just desserts." Though here she's looking up from her screen with a mild brightening in her wider eyes: "Oh, but with this, we could get to so many more of them. It's too bad we'll never get to thank him for his contributions to bettering the science world." --- 6 november. hfc sanctum. The Sanctum has been a hive of activity, which might to some extent have masked the white bishop's erratic hours and remote work. He is here now, detouring in his haste to the conversation pit, though he does not sit down to keep his mother company. "The 19th district race needs a little nudge, I'm sure your pet clerk can ensure the audit goes smoothly. We've still a dozen others on watchful waiting, I've highlit the ones that will hit Wall Street hardest. Ah..." He snaps his fingers, face scrunching in thought. "Judge what's-her-face...Massey has been handled, at least for now --" He frowns down at his phone when it buzzes, sighs heavily, and wiggles an earpiece into his ear. "Oh, and whyever is last that travel reimbursement half the discretionary fund? The paperwork didn't even say who it's for, but if we're flying in a VIP posthaste I need to know." "Half, {darling, don't be dramatic. Are you really going to be fretting about travel funds today of all days -- as if we can't afford a plane ticket.}" Elie's well-manicured fingers flutter in invitation towards the bench opposite her. "{Come now, you sound like your night has been busy enough you can afford to stop fussing about things we have well in hand and sit down long enough for a drink.}" David is sitting on Elie's other side with a drink of his own, jasper-yellow and sour-sweet in a flared crystal tumbler, paper-thin slice of lime and syrupy cherry floating amid the ice. "{Who do we deal with who isn't a Very Important Person?}" he adds to this; his head tosses slightly when he laughs, though not a single strand of hair escapes its perfectly gelled place. "And do tell about Judge Massey!" --- 7 november. le bonne entente, le carrefour. Nighttime might be Lucien's domain here but L'Entente's conservatory is no less magical during daylight hours. It is busier, though, and so easier to disappear into the lush winding pathways, lose yourself in the greenery. It's quite unremarkable, then, when one of the White Court's newest pawns(?) drifts out from behind a fringe of ferns, settling uninvited across from Winona. "I know it's a little unkosher for me to be fraternizing like this." He's holding a foxglove, twirling it lightly between forefinger and thumb; there's an unusual harder edge to his pleasant smile, though the keen interest that gleams in his eyes seems right at home. "I know from ambition but our Queen's latest scheme is threatening to make life so much duller and I thought," His speckled flute of blossom tips out to Winona like he's pointing a forefinger at her. "I know just the woman." The subtle clicking of quiet laptop keys stops, and Winona's face passes through several subtle expressions: curiosity, annoyance and caution key among them. She places her finger on the lid of the computer and pushes it closed. Her teeth rest lightly on her lip as she considers, her eyes resting on the foxglove. It is only after a few moments of hesitation that she reaches out to gently grab the foxglove pointed to her. "I do like to keep things a little more colourful. Alright. Let's fraternize." --- 8 november. rooftop. astoria. Raleigh lies still and nearly prone on the rooftop, propped up by her elbows and the tripod of her absurdly large sniper rifle. On the other end of her scope several blocks away and several stories down, Lucien Tessier is strolling along the riverbank through Astoria Park, indulgently following a sleek German shepherd mutt. "I might have more reservations about this," she's commenting dryly, though it's hard to tell whether to anyone in particular, "if he'd brought the dog with him to the Club. And now I have to traumatize her for life over a crazy family feud." Her fingers flex one after the other and settle back onto the grip, save the index finger which she curls around the trigger, and -- Out of seemingly nowhere, a figure pounces onto the sniper, striking the weapon off of its intended target. "Stand--" Winona's eyes are glowing an eerie white as her fist thuds into Raleigh, and they both find themselves momentarily transported to the memory of her third birthday party. And then just as reality colors back in, another dull thud, "-- the fuck--" The anxiety of a test that wasn't adequately prepared for swirls in, and then swirls back out around the next incoming fist. The memory of previous shots taken, another fist. "DOWN!" Of course on this most important of missions there is a backup sniper, mostly as a lookout but also ready in an instant to take over should Raleigh find herself indisposed. Another instant, perhaps, for David -- tucked obtrusively against the shelter of the exhaust ducts -- is busy poking his head up, in entirely the wrong direction, to get a look at the dog (who wouldn't want to see a dog??) with a pouty, overly affected "D'aww." And though surely he was quite prepared to see the dog's human shot in front of him, this interruption catches him quite off guard; he jumps, the chilled espresso martini in his hand splattering dark and shiny on the ductwork behind him, seeping into the roof's gravelly surface. "Oh my word!" he says, fumbling for the handgun in his shoulder holster, "Oh my --" --- 8 november. outside memorial sloan kettering cancer center. Ring? Buzz? Perhaps David's face is just showing up on the other White Knight's Apple Watch right now, bleary and bloodied, wiping fastidiously under one swollen, bruised eye with a silk paisley handkerchief, the other eye wide and wild. He's making this call from the front seat of his car, his face glowing eerily by the light of the Tesla's massive touchscreen, for once completely absent the beaming smile or the calculating amusement -- in their place, his grimace is absolutely ghastly. His tac clothes are nowhere in sight; instead he is wearing a dress shirt with no tie, the top button undone. "How's your night going, darling?" he says, before he takes a hearty swig of soju, straight from its frosting-pink bottle. Lourdes sits almost perfectly still in her blind on the scaffolding across from the main hospital entrance. On the other end of the scope she barely needs, Rasheed Toure is checking his phone as his car pulls up to the curb. She rolls her shoulders, takes careful aim of his left eye, rests her finger delicately on the trigger, and -- quickly removes it to tap her buzzing watch. "What the fuck," she hisses, incredulous. "Were you hitting on her? Why are you even there?" The chauffeur has circled the car to open the rear passenger door, and there's no time to wait for an answer from...some pawn? She adjusts her aim, sloppy now in her haste to catch Rasheed before he ducks into the car, and unceremoniously splatters his brains all over the hapless driver. "Great, you made me miss." The chaffeur's screams grow more distant as she retreats into the empty building whence she'd come. "Do you have any idea how smug Raleigh is going to be that I got his right eye?" "On her? Gracious, no." David sounds almost offended by this accusation -- "Mme Tessier told me to go along! I was in the army, you know --" this cheerful chatter does not let up even through the gunshot, the distant screaming, little though it shakes the Knight's aim; though his good eye widens again with fear at first, it relaxes once Lourdes pulls back. After another swig of soju David leans closer to the camera. "Oh, I wouldn't count on her being too smug -- well," this cuts with a weird, strained chuckle, somehow sincere yet entirely mirthless across the call. He tries to touch the side of his nose and winces -- though the flow of blood has long since stopped it's still bulbous and shiny. "I'm sure Briar will tell you all about it!" | |
