Logs:Scaffolding and Noise
| Scaffolding and Noise | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-07-20 "Why are we being so coy?" (Part of Lean In plot.) |
| Location
<HFC> Sanctum - Hfc Basement | |
This luxurious basement lounge is circular, largely taken up by a conversation pit lined with plush bench seating all upholstered in gold velvet. An octagonal table occupies the center, its surface crafted from gleaming black glass. There are four gaps in the circle of couches, two admitting stairs that descend into the pit. The other two postmodern gas fireplaces, each in a shallow brass bowl, one sitting on a black marble plinth, the other white, one topped with a white organically curved flue, the other black. Ringing the conversation pit is a raised gallery containing two recessed, U-shaped booths that can be screened off for a modicum of privacy, two exquisite tropical fish tanks--one salt water, one fresh--two restrooms, neither marked for any particular gender, and a bar opposite the entrance. Between these, the walls are decorated with artwork from all around the world, paintings and sculptures and pottery and masks. Ravel's violin sonata (no. 2, for anyone who knows there's a need to specify) is piping quiet but energetic through the very excellent surround sound system. Matt is sprawled luxuriantly across two couch cushions, in a white dress shirt and gray pleated trousers, the same leafy arabesque pattern uniting his emerald green cravat, royal purple vest, and the subtly embossed side panels of his black dress boots. He's got a snifter of brandy cupped in one hand and a beautifully hardbound copy of Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There propped open in the other, his eyes fixed with rapt attentiveness on the page opposite an illustration of the Red Queen speaking to little Alice. "Ah," the man picking his way delicately into the conversation pit also has a snifter of brandy in one hand, his deep red suit jacket hooked on two fingers, slung over one shoulder; with his shirtsleeves rolled up and tie (a bold yellow paisley) loosened he looks almost too casual for this opulent setting, or he would if he were not gleaming with expensiveness -- gold thread in his tie, brightly shined shoes, chunky wristwatch and rings, even his smile glints unnaturally white under his sleekly gelled hair. "There you are, Mssr Tessier," he says, as though this is not where he was expected to meet; he takes in Matt's choice of literature with a perplexed quirk of one eyebrow that is quickly schooled back into his easy-going smile. His eyes dart around the room -- "Is your lovely mother not joining us?" Matt's eyes tick up, lighting brighter than such a casual smile should warrant. "Indeed, you have discovered me! Not a fan of Carroll?" This sounds completely, neutrally curious. He looks back down to the page briefly, then closes the book. "Mother is at tea with her book club, I imagine. Do have a seat, won't you?" This is sweet and casual and not very much like a request." He takes a sip of his brandy, studying David through the glass. "I know you are yet new to New York, but this is a wonderful city for wandering. I hope the alien invasion hasn't put you off of that, but have you seen much of Lower Manhattan at your leisure since then?" David quirks his other eyebrow up now, glancing back down at the book -- "Oh, nothing like that," he says, "I don't think I've read those books since I was in short pants." Is he old enough (or British enough) to use that phrase? No matter; he swings the jacket around to drape it over the velvet, sits down just far enough from Matt to not be sitting beside him, crossing one ankle over his knee, stretching his free arm out along the bench back. "What is your mother reading?" is with only idle curiosity; he raises his glass to his lips a moment later, like a delayed reflection of Matt. He shrugs only one shoulder, his hand resting along the the velvet turning up as if helplessly -- "Only between appointments," he says. "It's a dreary place to visit these days, one can't help but sympathize with the poor folks who have to live there. And parking is impossible --" somewhere in all of this he seems to swiftly recalculate his position. "-- But, of course, one must go where business calls. I do enjoy the shows." "Mm." Matt turns the slim red clothbound volume over in his hand. "I, for one, would recommend revisiting this delightful bit of madness over Mother's pick for her lionesses this month. Book of Lost Names. Kristin Harmel, I think. It's very serious." He leans forward to set Through the Looking-Glass on the coffee table and exchange it for a slim tablet. "If you've done much looking up while out and about, you've seen some of the business that's calling. Have you ever seen so much scaffolding in your life?" He clicks his tongue and twirls the stylus between his fingers. "There are big swaths of the Lower East Side owned by slumlords great and small. Some of them are struggling to repair and rebuild after one or more objects of extraterrestrial origin crashed into their properties." He quirks a fey smile up at David. "Such struggles might guide them into making unwise financial decisions, don't you think?" David jiggles one foot, the dark leather tassel on his shoe bouncing with the motion. "Scaffolding and noise," he says, with a very small, tragic sigh. As if observing a moment of respectful silence, he pauses here, lips pursed and head slightly inclined, before his chin tilts that miniscule angle up again, his pleasant smile fixed on his face once more, as though it never faltered. "On the contrary," he says, "I imagine many of them will find it quite prudent to sell out now, considering how much they stand to lose trying to plump the broken skeletons of their properties back up to building code. And the cost of construction these days! Well --" with a lazy, dismissive wave of his hand, "I haven't dabbled in real estate since the aughts, but I can only imagine demand far outstrips supply, these days." "Oh, it does," Matt allows, graciously, "but this is New York." There's nothing of King Leonidas in his carriage or tone or even cadence, but it still comes out with a touch of '"this is Sparta!"'. "You might be shocked how far property management companies will go to hold onto deeds they're sure would be worth so much more, if only they could get the pests out." He tips his glass again and savors his next sip of brandy, studying David with sincere interest."If you can get them to spook without the imminent threat of further enduring mutant presence..." He ducks his head impressed, and gives an approving turn of the hand without disturbing the contents of his glass. "That would be rather convenient. I know just the gentleman to unburden the ones who blink first, and make that threat real." David blinks -- not exactly catlike in its languidness, but with an air of quaint amusement nonetheless. "Of course," he says. "It's all about finding the craven cowards in their ranks, it shouldn't be difficult." He studies Matt in return, out of the corner of his eye, as he swirls his brandy in its glass, the corners of his lips curled not exactly in a smile. "I expect you do," he says. "Very well." His eyes linger on Matt for a moment, before he polishes off his drink; his tone takes on a bland interest as he wibbles the empty glass in his hand. "Won't they notice if mutants come pouring in anyway? Why are we being so coy?" Matt tilts his head. "Are we being coy?" This does not sound wholly rhetorical. "The gentleman in question does in fact mean to fund mutant-specifc services, but those will not materialize at once. Telegraphing that fact will make it easier to acquire property by--as you say--making it more prudent to sell." He sets the tablet down and taps it to project a holographic map of the Lower East Side in the air between himself and David. "My benighted philanthropist isn't looking to buy up the whole neighborhood, but I would like to see more of it in the holdings of those amenable to our influence. We can then see to it a greater than expected share of the city's disaster recovery subsidies get funneled to them." And now he's smiling, a little mischievously. "I suppose that is a bit coy. But, you are far better versed in real estate. What do you think of this?" "Mm." David uncrosses his legs to sit forward, cocking his head at the holographic Lower East Side like he's already parceling it out in his mind, elbows resting on his knees. "If I need the handicap I'm sure I'll know when to take it," he says, eyebrows pressed into a peak over his forehead. "Very ambitious. Very -- noble?" Whatever he thinks of this, he doesn't dwell on it -- "I hope your philanthropist friend is ready and willing to buy. This is New York! Real estate waits for no man." | |
