ArchivedLogs:Little Things We Learn

Little Things We Learn
Dramatis Personae Doug, Parley	2013-03-28 '
Location <NYC> Hellfire Clubhouse - Upper East Side
Monochrome elegance at its finest: the Hellfire Club plays home to New York's elite, and has spared no expense in making that clear. Black and white marble tiles the floor, the pattern distinctly that of a chessboard. Rich wood paneling lines the walls, and the alcoves of the entry hall hold statues reminiscent of chess pieces. Meeting and dining halls provide plentiful space for the club's members to congregate, whatever their needs. The Hellfire's library, while far smaller than its ballroom in size, is far more prized in content. Hundreds of volumes line the meticulously tended shelves, the rarest kept carefully in climate-controlled cases under the watchful eye of the mansion's librarian. High-backed leather chairs and plush couches provide quiet reading spaces beneath soft lighting, and tall windows look out to the mansion's gardens beyond. The main ballroom of the mansion is vast and opulent, its ceiling vaulted and the balconies above curving gracefully away from the grand staircase -- an ideal place from which to Make An Entrance. The hallways that branch off from the staircase run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. The Osborn gala is going at full measure, the dance floor filled with smiling couples who spin in slow, graceful turns on the polished wood. Other guests are either walking amongst the displays, or chatting idly in small groups. One group seems a bit larger than the others, all listening intently to a large, bald man telling a story in his honey-soaked murmur. The crowd laughs when he reaches the end, and it's in that moment of confusion that Doug slips out of their number, pulling at his tux jacket to straighten it as he makes his escape. At least, it seems like an escape, with the speed he's moving away and attempting to lose himself in the crowd. He pauses at the display of adhesive, studying it carefully with a small frown and leaning forward to read the small information card next to it. "Huh," he says, as he stands back up, and wrinkles his nose as he begins to move away. "That seems familiar." He reaches for his pocket, touching it lightly before he shakes his head, trailing after a serving drone as it meanders through the crowd. "What do you have?" Parley, dressed in grays with a high mandarine collar, materializes beside Doug as though he'd always been there; for the quiet of his presence, he may well have been, glancing at Doug's pocket. If this is surreal, don't even try to understand the oyster he carries, lightly dusted with truffle salt and a flake of red pepper. Doug jumps a bit, when Parley speaks, turning to look at the smaller man blankly for a split-second before he offers a wide smile. "Parley! I thought I saw you earlier." He snags a glass from the drone before it can hover off to the next people, and pats his pocket. "Oh, it's just my phone," he says. "I was going to take a couple of pictures of stuff, but I don't know if Mister Osborn would be okay with that." He takes a sip from his glass, tension draining from his frame slowly. "What brings you to this spectacle?" "I wouldn't." Parley advises, cupping a hand beneath his oyster to keep from dripping when he slurps it. "He has professional photographers here already, I'm sure their full specs will be released soon enough." He hands off the empty shell to a servo-bot tasked with collecting trash. And sets to trying to find a way to politely lick his fingers. It's done with quick little rushes! "Mmh. My employer was invited, I accompanied as her aid; I'm here mostly to look harmless and spread the moderate agenda." Joke. Ish. "Yourself?" "That's sort of what I figured," Doug says, looking regretfully back towards the adhesive display. "Miss Frost said pretty much the same thing, regarding the specs. Still. I'm super-curious about it." Half-truths aren't lying, are they? Probably not. His eyebrows lift mildly at Parley's explanation, and he smiles. "Wow. I didn't know you were working already. Congratulations." It's heart-felt, and Doug reaches out to clasp Parley's shoulder warmly, briefly. He quirks a lopsided grin at that joke, and nods. "I'm here to prove to the media and Mister Osborn that his business associates and their families are behind whatever thing he's announcing tonight." He inhales deeply, and takes a drink before he actually exhales. "How do you like it? The upper crust?" Possibly not lying, but to an empath that has a knack for sentiment and intent, their nature still tastes of the same thing - Parley only smiles though, rocking under the hand clasping his shoulder as though it weighs so muuuuch. Or possibly just the congratulation, either way he waves a reflexive hand, "Ah! Well, I got lucky, finding someone that would hire a mutant. I'm a communications consultant for a local lawyer." He glances over a shoulder, scanning the crowd thoughtfully while he repeats, "Upper crust... mh, is that what all of this is? I feel like more a casual observer than a part of it. Your family are associates of Mr. Osborn? That's impressive." He's not mocking, eyes interested. "Still. That's pretty awesome," Doug says, lifting his glass. "I mean, it's the sort of thing I should be doing, I guess. Put my talents to good use, and all of that. Good on you for finding it." There's no bitterness there; Doug is genuinely happy for his new friend. "Now that you've got a real job, I hope that doesn't mean that you won't be sneaking down to steal my food any more." He nudges the smaller man gently with his elbow. "Alt and Delete would miss you." The question gets a lift of his shoulder. "It sounds more impressive than it actually is. My father's company does consulting work for Osborn, since he's a government contractor." His mouth pulls into a frown, and there's a wash of mild guilt that registers in his face, briefly. "But, it's enough to get us invited to these things." He polishes off his glass, and sets it on a passing tray. "Are you learning anything interesting, while you're observing?" "-ah," Parley holds up a supplicant hand when Doug talks about what he 'should' be doing, "Please be careful. There are a lot of litigious issues and consent forms that need to be signed right now, before communicational mutations can be used legally. It still counts as public displays of mutation to use it for interpreting. And once you've been cited, you'll be at the top of the list if the laws end up going through that require mutant registration." Working for a lawyer has opened his eyes on the matters of how they will Get You, and How To Avoid It. "Who's your father?" He curls a hand around the back of his neck, smiling small at the last question, "Well. I hope I am." Doug grins, and lifts a shoulder. "Oh, I don't intend to actually /do/ it," he clarifies. "I'm much more interested in my software development, which is ultimately a safer bet. I'm considering working up a phone app, but I haven't pinned down an idea, yet." He taps his temple. "I've got a few that seem likely, though." He scrunches his nose. "I hate those laws," he says, reaching out to snag a full glass from the next drone. Maybe it sensed his empty glass being dumped. "They stink of concentration camps." He lets that lie there, uncomfortable as he's suddenly aware it's /Parley/ he's speaking to. Fortunately, the question provides an easy out. "Phillip Ramsey," he supplies, pointing out a dark-haired man with a mustache with a blonde woman in silvery-blue on his arm. Doug does this pointing surreptitiously, as if the gesture might draw their attention. "He owns Ramsey Biotech." This comes with another wash of guilt and suspicion? Dread? It's all mixed up in there. Parley doesn't look particularly troubled by Doug's comparison - his eyes having drifted off across the wide expanse of the dance floor. He pushes air through his nose, dropping his head with eyes slid to the far side to consider the man Doug is indicating. Hmmm. He'll be googling and wiking the name Ramsey tonight, clearly. What he comes back with, however, eyes rising back up and smile returning, "Ah - how is your schooling coming?" Doug doesn't seem bothered by Parley's silence. It's one of his favorite traits about the other man. His smile is easy and warm for anyone who glances in their direction, and he even lifts a glass in the direction of someone he knows, offering a nod. He turns back with a hum of acknowledgement of the question, bobbing his head. "It's coming along all right," he says. "I think I might take the summer terms, too, and hopefully push things up a bit." He inhales through his nose, holding the breath for a second before releasing it. "I don't know, though. It depends on if I get a job or not." He tilts his head in Parley's direction, his smile a little more reserved. "Are you enjoying your new job? Which firm are you working with?" "Mmmh I work directly for Ms. Claire Basil." Parley scans the room, pulling in a heel to allow a couple to waltz past in a surreal spiraling drift of gown and suit, but can't for the moment locate his employer. "She hired me before I had all of my papers in order, so I'm not officially part of any firm." He hooks a slightly sharper smile, "Think of me as a very useful housepet." The smile gentles again, not really sustaining itself, "Good luck in whatever you decide." Doug casts about in his memory for the name when Parley offers it, and shakes his head. "I'm not familiar with her," he admits. "But if she can afford to pay you, she must be doing all right." He grins wide, and bobs his head. "Oh, hey, thanks," he says, his eyes crinkling. "I think I'm just at that stage where everything sounds like a possibility, so there's lots of choices." He chuckles, and inclines his head towards the dance floor. "Do you dance?" Parley looks out at the dancer floor with more consideration, watching the feet of participants, the rest of a woman's hand on a man's shoulder. "I," he says thoughtfully, "don't really know. I've never really thought about it." Doug watches Parley in his observation with an impassive face. When Parley answers, the corners of his mouth curl slightly. There's a hesitation, a brief inner debate between desire and decorum that ends with Doug holding out his hand, palm up. "Would you like to find out?" "Oh," Parley claps a hand to his chest lightly, laughing and holding up a hand, "I couldn't. I'm sorry." Doug's smile doesn't falter as he drops his hand to his side, but there's a sting of disappointment that lances through him. "That's okay. It's not really my kind of music, anyway." His smile slips wider, and he sips at his glass, watching the other partygoers quietly for a moment. "So, what do you think this big announcement is about?" he asks, suddenly. "Must be a doozy, to merit this kind of hoopla." "I think I couldn't possibly imagine what a man of his calibre might be thinking," Parley admits, looking over his shoulder, studying the distant orchestra playing. "I should probably find Claire. She'll need me once the speech starts." He seems about to go, but does pause to smile one more time, a little rushed shape he scraps together just for Doug, "Enjoy the rest of your evening." "He's an odd duck, all right," Doug says, wrinkling his nose. "His toys are interesting, though. Should be interesting, to say the least." He nods without looking when Parley begins his exit, and turns to flash a similarly small smile at the other man. "You, too, Parley," he says, with a warm crinkle of his eyes. "And don't be such a stranger. You're always welcome around my pad." He lifts his glass in salute. "I'll see you later." And he rocks on his heel, pausing a brief, conflicted moment before he turns, and disappears smoothly into the partygoers.