Logs:Colourful
| Colourful | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-11-08 "I hate to be a bore, but that woman needs to retire and move to hell." (Part of Lean In plot.) |
| Location
<NYC> By the Riverbank - Astoria, Queens | |
It's a lovelier night than it has any right to be. Mild and pleasant even so very late into the night, and though Thursday has turned into Friday some time back Lucien seems like he has no plans any time soon for sleep. He's been outside for this particular late-night conference, pulling double (or more) duty -- conversing with this Pawn here face to face, taking his energetic dog out for a long walk, catching up on quite a few emails, all at once. While Flèche (off her leash, yes, and the strips of parkland that border L'Entente are definitely not dog parks -- but then, it is 1 a.m. and they've seen no dogs and very few people since being out here) bounds ahead after a rat that has just scurried down over the rocks, Lucien is taking his time. Slower, quieter where he trails behind, just tucking his phone (not for the first time) back in the pocket of his impeccably tailored grey trousers and turning his fuller attention back to his companion to add: "-- I know they've been meaning to expand their holdings in pharmaceuticals at Worthington for some time and I've no doubt our friends there will be quite generously grateful for the information." An insomniac by nature, Zeyta makes perfect complement for late-night endeavors. The brisk autumn air and the crisp crunch of leaves underfoot their paved path punctuates their leisurely stroll, as she holds out an iPad in one hand, directing Lucien’s attention when pertinent with the stylus gripped in her opposite hand as she charts out the movements of stocks and assets. “Mm, just practice more discretion than Martha Stewart back in the early 2000s,” is a sly, dry approximation of a joke—the closest to humor she approaches. “Curious too if there is any, ah, intellectual property or patents we might wish to pursue as well.” Even though there are still some sounds life, absent are the human sounds, the din of conversation, of feet crunching on the leaves, of wheels against-- Actually, that sound does seem to be creeping up. The rattle of hard wheels against the paved path gets louder as Winona boards over the path. Her olive jacket and face have some speckles of blood, and while there are some on her beige 'The Truth Is Out There' t-shirt, at least it kind of works with the spooky vibes. When she stops, and with a single movement pops the board up in the air to catch it and hold it under her arm, she looks between Zeyta and Lucien with a hard expression and a furrowed brow. She blows a wisp of air from over her eye and says, "Speaking of discretion, how about we move this meeting inside?" "And here I was planning to issue a press release -- actually," Lucien is musing, "I do know some people at the SEC who might take an interest in the other Court's dealings, if nudged. -- Have you been staying up on some of these alien findings? There are quite a few paths of --" He breaks off, here, brows pulling together as the wheelrattle grows nearer. He glances from Zeyta's screen to Winona, and the flecks of blood pull his eyes narrower in critical frown. He clicks his tongue sharp, and Flèche bounds back up over the rocky embankment, large rodent body still twitching in her mouth. His frown transfers seamlessly to the dog, and he's produced some treats from a small pouch in his pocket to offer the dog -- clearly reluctant to drop the rat though she does after a curt gesture. "Inside, then." He's quiet, until they have returned to L'Entente, silent for the elevator ride up to his quiet nighttime garden. "Are you hurt?" "Naturally. I still do not think the, ah, corporations have quite managed to capitalize on it as much as the black market. The size of prize is there, the right disruptor has not stepped up to own the space to be first to shelf, in my opinion." Zeyta finishes her thought before she acknowledges Winona. She maintains her stonewalled countenance, frigid candor absorbing the shock of blood spatter with appraisal rather than concern. Lips pursed tight, she nods. "Let us." The plural attaches herself to the upcoming debrief with a clear delineation of intrigue despite her lack of surprise. At the late hour, she is practical enough to open doors and press the number to their desired floor. "More importantly, were you followed?" Priorities. Winona starts to say something, but at being asked if she was followed, she shoots Zeyta a baleful look and replies, "Being followed is not among my worries, since your location was known well enough by anyone who'd bother." She looks to Lucien and says, "After all, it was your head in the crosshairs." She brushes her jacket lightly and frowns as she seems to just realize the spattering. Her teeth press lightly on her lip as she examines her raw knuckles, "I didn't deal with it with the kind of finesse or panache that'd do you any kind of proud. But suffice it to say, you came close to having a worse kind've night than I did." Lucien is watching his dog lope off to other parts of the conservatory, likely going to harry the hapless turtles off in one of the ponds. He drifts a little further into the room, leaning lightly up against the edge of a patio table. "Again?" is certainly not pleased, but the mild and rote cadence of his vexation -- neither particularly surprised nor particularly dismayed -- would be equally suited to Winona telling him she just talked him out of a parking ticket. "I very much appreciate your diligence, I've hardly done whittling down the mountain of paperwork from the last time they had me killed. It's getting a bit banal --" Though here he is pausing, with a deeper frown. "-- It was my mother's Court, right? Or have I other assassins I ought be particularly concerned about, right now?" "Would you like a napkin and club soda, or the address to my dry cleaner." Zeyta presents a question in her usualy fashion: as a statement, indifferent to the answer, and in a bland monotone. Her more prudent motive is in securing their perimeter--not as a prey animal under threat, but as an apex predator stalking the edge of her territory. When she rejoins the main congregation, she produces a handkerchief and a bottle of hand sanitizer from her tote-purse (iPad and stylus long since stowed away), offering them to Winona as make-shift wound care. "I keep imploring people to realize the dullness of murder, truly," she remarks, as non-plussed as Lucien. "Your dry cleaner might be beyond my usual laundry budget," says Winona, seeming rather resigned over this casual reaction to the attempted murder. She nods appreciatively at the sanitizer and handkerchief, and gets to applying some of it to her wounds with a wince. "Yeah. Your mother's court. It was Raleigh and David who I had to-- Confront. But your mother--" She looks towards Zeyta a moment and then to Lucien, "Well, I hate to be a bore, but that woman needs to retire and move to hell." "I'll handle your laundering costs. I'll get you a new wardrobe if you're in the market." Lucien folds one arm across his chest, the light tap-tap-tap at the crook of his arm the only real indication of any particular agitation over tonight's escapades. "You aren't wrong. We've been quite effective at stymieing many of their plans but it's a losing battle being reactive." He turns his hand up, tipping it in an elegant gesture to the women before him. "What do you say we take back our Court?" "I'll send over my stylist. It will be a delight," Zeyta assures her, inflection missing to drive home the prospect with much conviction. Yet it seems in effect, for she fishes out her phone to issue a quick text message, looking up as her thumb taps across the screen. "I understand the Tessiers have a timeshare in one of the nine circles. Perhaps she can retire to the one overlooking the frozen lake," she muses, a definitive tap sending her communication off into the ether as she regards Lucien with a wry smirk. "Oh, do tell me there'll be more grandeur than a common culling. You have a reputation within show business to uphold." Winona exhales and leans forward, releasing some of the tension in her shoulders. She nods a couple of times at the suggestion of the eternal timeshare, then blows some strands of hair back into place once again. "Let's take it back. I'd have no objection to a dull, dry affair, but..." She sighs and smiles wanly, rubbing the crook between her shoulder and neck. "I do like to keep things a little more colourful." | |
