ArchivedLogs:Parry and Thrust

Parry and Thrust
Dramatis Personae Jim, Nox	2013-02-24 Questions are asked. Very few answers are given.
Location <NYC> Evolve Nightclub - Lower East Side
Owned by the same people as the coffeeshop below, Evolve's nightclub, much like its cafe, draws many of its clientele from the mutant community. Aside from the club/goers/, it is much as many clubs are. An abundance of thumping music, a host of guest DJs for the different parties each night, an abundance of various intoxicants legal and not to be found each night. The bar stretches wide along the back wall, well-nicked wood surface contrasting with polished brass fixings. The balcony overlooking the dancefloor carries a host of eclectic mismatched seating, and the dancefloor is usually packed. The room has a more industrial feel than the cafe below, exposed beams of ceiling catching the multicoloured lights oddly, bare walls host to a range of graffiti encouraged by the paint markers hung around the walls by chains. There's nothing more barren than a club during the daylight hours. With all the lights on and all the music off, it has more of a novelty warehouse feeling than a techno-dream stop, the paint garish on the walls and a Mexican janitor lazily pushing a floor cleaner over the surface of the dance floor. The upper balcony is considerably dimmer; some of the chairs stacked up or turned upside down atop the tables to clear the floor, which has just recently been cleaned. Later, there will be the smell of sweat and liquor and smoke - but for now, just Pine Sol and Windex. Also Jim. Though he doesn't smell much, aside from a vague tang of cigarette smoke. He stands up at the balcony edge, one hand braced on the railing, the other holding his cellphone up to his face to read a text message. He makes a dreary, "Tssss" sound, followed up with a muttered, "Figures." There are always dark ways into a club, even during the daytime. Opened doors in the back cast shadows on the floor, and there are corners and nooks to slide into--if one is partial to slipping through shadows as a mode of travel. Nox is very partial to that method and has been here longer, in fact, though no one's aware of it. She'd checked the bar area first, the service area in the back and then she'd slunk up to the balcony where again, there was nothing. But that's alright--she is and always has been content with waiting. She may well have remained still, silent and hidden in a corner, taking on the shape of the shadows cast by a table and the chairs piled on its surface, but Jim is recognized. Still, he's allowed to stand there through the text and the muttering before she finds the boldness needed to draw his attention. The darkness on the wall rearranges itself into a woman's head and shoulders, the short flipped 'do of her hair. "Stood up?" "--/Jesus/," Jim nearly drops his phone off the balcony, and then claps a hand against his chest while he crams it in his pocket, "Lady, you got a gift for putting my heart in my mouth." And then, in the same breath and with equal gruff briskness he jerks a chin, "How you been?" Like this is all perfectly normal. "Didn't peg you as a club goer." His tatty tweed coat and unshaven jaw do not much match the environs, either. While Jim scrambles for his phone, Nox ducks back behind the table again, still clinging to the wall. If shadows can present an abashed appearance, hers is doing just that through body language alone. "I apologize, sir. I hadn't intended to frighten you this time," she murmurs. It sounds genuine, that sorry. She gradually eases out from behind the table as his pulse returns to normal. "One of my...one of my wards is fond of a staff member here. Of late, I dislike allowing anyone out unchaperoned but she left while I was distracted." She pauses. Thinks to add, "How have you been? Well, I hope." "Oh, sure. Workin' hard or hardly workin', right? Was outta town." The apology is waved off dismissively, Jim's eyes following the drift between woman and shadows with a hip hitched up against the railing, "It's a compliment; not a lotta people can get up behind me." He leans back to look at the empty dance floor below, "Haven't seen a lotta kids in yet. What's your girl look like?" "One could say that it is what I do." The confidence comes in a hum--compliments amuse her, perhaps. Nox draws herself up, lengthening as if the angle of light had shifted, the sun passing on towards dusk. "But one could also say that I cheated. I have been here some time," she adds. One hand lifts and extends to a height well above hers. "Tall, skinny. Faceted eyes. Antennae. She is sweet on the bartender, in spite of, ah...the difficulties. Have you seen her?" She sounds more curious than hopeful. The short, sharp sucking of teeth is Jim's equivalent of an apologetic look. Or you might assume so, since he isn't /making/ an apologetic look otherwise when he says, "She was in a little earlier." He jerks his head down towards the dance floor. "Barely stuck her head in before she headed out again. I guess because, uh." He gestures towards the bar down below, where the current bartender is leaning hard over the bartop to smile secretively into the face of one of the evening DJ's. The DJ leans forward responsively, tracing fingertips over the rim of a water glass set on the counter top between them. Cue a long moment of silence, during which time Jim has crammed a hand into his jacket pocket, and is itching his ribs /through/ this pocket. It looks vaguely fidgety, vaguely lethargic. "Listen, about the other day. Sorry about Murph, he's kinda a jackass." There is a matching hiss, though softer still, as Nox peels away from the wall to adopt a more ghost-like mien. She looks over the railing to study the tableau before her, sighing once the pertinent details are seen. "There will be tears for this. Tears and the gnashing of teeth, the tearing of clothes." The woman says this in the same way others would say, simply, "/Teenagers/". Dancing back from the balcony's edge, she dips her head to him in a wordless thanks. Aspects of her face can be made out, in this form--the broad impression of eyes, a nose, a mouth. The latter turns down at the corners and draws in. "Your friend has apologized as well. I understood his reasons, they make sense to him," she says, now shaking her head. "I would only eject him now if I found him in my home again." "That's kinda the default opinion of private investigators," Jim says with a thin grin that's rather content and peaceful, "We make an art of gettin' chased out of places. Must be /therapeutic/, if anything. If I had to watch over a pack of teenagers, I'd climb the wall." Which is followed up with the blunt question, "Guess right about now's the time I say that I don't imagine I'd get an answer if I asked how many're down there now, huh?" And before she can answer, he turns his back on her, "Lemme buy you a drink. What you take?" He's already heading towards the stairs. "Stay up here if you wanna." "I cannot say that I am fond of your profession," Nox confirms quietly. She has the grace to pair a smile with the sentiment, softening the blow--if a blow is even felt. The bluntness certainly isn't on her end, rolling off with nary a ripple nor a reply. He guessed correctly. "Particularly when it intrudes on my domain. As to your /person/, or Mister Law's, I have no particular opinion, save that I prefer you up here rather than down there." This last is said in his lee, coming from his own shadow in tones far less gruff than emerge from his real mouth--she's animated it though, down to making shadow-Jim fold together to express thanks. "A scotch, please, and thank you." "That's a shame," Jim comments, "You'd make a killing as a snoop, yourself, sweetheart, lurking in the shadows is a PI's bread and butter. You and me could make some beautiful music together." If Nox cares to hitch a ride, Jim doesn't stage a complaint, though the borrowing of his shadow is noted, and thus experimented with along the course - he extends a hand, waggles his fingers to see if the movement would be reflected upon. An extended middle finger would come next. It's principle of the thing. "Fond of music, are you?" Nox defies the instruction of his hands, choosing instead--when she notices the raised middle finger--to use shadow-Jim's fingers to primp Shadow-Jim's hair. After tidying up the temple and scruff areas, she bleeds away from his shadow and becomes the ghost again, though greyer and far more diffuse under the brighter lights of the main floor. It's easier that way, approaching the bar. "I've no interest in making a killer, sir. You might have noticed as much from my living conditions." <Morlocks> Masque has disconnected. Jim follows the parameter of the room in compliance of the thicker trend of shadows, his eyes roving the mostly empty dance floor rather than his present company, "So what does interest you, then." He asks this as they reach the bar, which gets a professional side-eye from the bartender. Polite enough not to comment, he sidles over, dragging a wet rag across the bartop along the way, "Get you something?" "One scotch, whatever topshelf shit you like. And a, uh," Jim drums fingertips on the counter edge, "You got a pineapple juice back there? A glass of that." "You want them mixed?" The bartender looks a little /pained/ until a popped-eyed stare and a /shake/ of head from Jim relieves him. A low hum emanates from Nox's general vicinity at the exchange between the two. She takes a position leaning against the bar, elbows and stomach solidifying to allow the classic I'm here to drink position. Her head turns towards Jim. "Topshelf is not necessary," she puts in at a whisper, fingers raised to flick at the bartender to catch his attention before the drinks materialize. "I am interested in remaining hale, whole and hearty, Mister...ah, you know, I don't believe I remember your last name." "Oh, it is." Jim assures her grimly, "I've been on the wagon about three years. I live out my bar life vicariously now, so do me the favor. Think of it as drinking for two." He waves the drink /on/, leaving the bartender to glance back and forth between the two before quickly turning his back on them to pour, before they change their minds. The drinks are served up quick enough, and Jim lays the cash out on the table to avoid the suggestion of opening a tab. "Morgan," he supplies after sipping his juice. "James. Jim. Jimmy. Been a long-ass time anyone's called me Jimmy, though. You got a name outside Nox?" He's probably not supposed to ask. But his frank stare dares you to try and /tell/ him that, holding up his drink for a little toast, "To the tomfuckery of teenagers." As Jim's the man with the cash, Nox doesn't do him the injustice of refusing. The glass she's served is taken--the rest of her fading into sight to make the process of drinking possible--and raises it to the generous, abstaining soul who's provided it. Her sip is brief but deep and the glass returned to the bar before she phases out again. Her lack of clothing might have something to do with that. "For they know not what they do," she finishes with a thin sigh. "Thank you, Jim. James. Whichever you prefer. As with you and liquor, so too me and names. I had one. Now I don't. Will that be a problem?" "I was raised by dirty hippies," Jim swirls his drink blandly, "Nox ain't half as bad as some of the shit I've heard people call themselves. Starchild and Moonbeam - I knew a pair of sisters named Cinnamon and Sparkle at birth. I shit you not, it's right on their birth certificates. They go by Kerry and Jennifer now. And so the world turns." He pulls out his phone to send a text, slow hunt-and-peck method of unfamiliar button mashing, frowning, "Seems we all got names we'd rather have than not. Some it fits better, anyway. Lot of muties seem to turn in their names for new ones." He mashes send and grins at Nox, "Embrace the culture, right?" "And yet here he sits before me, bearing the strong yet humble label of James. Could it perhaps be jealousy? Or, more likely, he has traded Starchild and Moonbeam for salt of the earth, the pages of the good book. Or he's seen no need at all and enjoys a good laugh." Nox's eyes flip briefly to the phone. She watches his fingers go but before the message is even sent, she's back to studying his face. "I wasn't aware that it was culture, Mister Morgan. Necessity, in some cases. Choice in others. It seems far too individual for a broad brush. You would rather have my birth name." "We talking about each other third person now?" Jim glances up, a cornerwise quirk of amusement menacing the left edge of his mouth, "He'll do a lot for a laugh, you can bet on that. I'd argue choice and necessity are the two driving forces in /constructing/ culture. When's mankind /not/ set been set up somewhere between what we need and what we want? Like me," he reaches over the back of the bar to snag two coasters - they're being neglected by the bartender, as is the nature of daytime hours in a night time establishment - and sets them out between the two of them, "I'd /rather/ get whatever I haven't got yet. I'd say it was a professional habit, but I'd be lying. I'm not curious 'cause it's my job, I picked the job because I'd be curious /anyway/. Don't tell me you've never walked past a Do Not Enter sign and didn't pause to wonder 'why /not/'?" "I am afraid my willingness to cross certain barriers was lost some time ago, Mister Morgan. It is not wise to look behind closed doors. Curiosity, as they say, kills. Though you seem a remarkably healthy man to be so afflicted, and for that I salute you." Nox does as she says--her hand goes from smoky grey to charcoal, the effect running up her arm and through the rest of her as she reaches for her drink. It is raised, sipped from and returned. To the coaster, of course. "Or whatever god of luck it is that looks after you," she adds after contemplation. A small smile tugs at her lips then. "You didn't say whether your current name was chosen or given, and if given, how you escaped the hippy curse." "That's right, I didn't," Jim agrees, the corners of his eyes turning up while regarding Nox over his drink, "That gonna be a problem?" The navigation of juice glass to coaster is less nimble than his present company, a mild clunk without flourish, "I'd say I got a /lot/ to be grateful for, miss Nox, every breath I take. Luck or happenstance, I've got a lot less fuck to give. I'll sooner toss a /saddle/ on a gift horse than look it in the mouth. How long you been underground?" Parry and thrust. "No," Nox murmurs, tucking her chin in low and humming again, "but surely you of all people must understand, Mister James, that not /all/ information can be had simply for the asking. Or the spying. I do appreciate the effort. I have no reason to share that information with you." "Not a one," Jim agrees, propping two elbows on the bartop, his eyes fixed across the way at the bottles and mirror beyond. "Maybe another time." He's content to nurse his pineapple juice for a moment. "May I ask why you want to know? If the reasons go beyond the purely curious?" Perhaps she isn't entirely broken of the habit of peeking behind doors. Reminded of her drink again, Nox tilts the glass to look inside before raising it to her lips. She remains tangible long enough to roll those lips together. The glass is returned without sound to the coaster. The rest of the bar is ignored in favor of studying his profile. "Are you looking for sanctuary?" This pauses Jim's glass midway towards his mouth, if only momentarily. It gets there in time, if slower in vector. He wipes off his mouth and sets down the glass once more, both hands loosely circled around it. "Maybe." He says it in experiment, compressing his mouth into a flat line. "Maybe I'd just like knowing there's one out there." Or down there. He glances at the woman through the corner of his eye, head tipping down, "I'm not really the kind of guy to stay out of where I should. Or /in/. What would a place of your own look like? You got three wishes." Nox answers him by way of a question: "Mister Law said that you were a tree." The glance finds her smiling. "You ask difficult questions, sir. A place of my own...I have that now, in a way. It's very dark. Very quiet. Peaceful. But I'll give this one to you for free." She inclines towards him, soft voice gone softer still. "I used to think it would be a white Cape Cod, in sight of the sea. Where I could listen to the water at night, and look out over it during the day. There'd be a garden. No flowers...I never liked flowers, there's something perverse in cutting something to watch it die. But herbs, and flowering bushes. Lilac, rosemary." "Mister Law says a lot of things," Jim murmurs, initially leaving it flatly at this, his eyes set down in his glass's interior. And in words, he offers little more. But one hand comes away to hold itself aloft in favor of Nox's vantage, fingers loosely opened. The psoriasis flakiness towards the back of his knuckles peels, falls open and expands into the flowering petals of a lilac cluster amongst his finger joints. The scent soon follows. "Can't say I'm all that eager to see greenery ripped or sliced off either." His eyes are scanning the room, the bartender, the DJ setting up for the coming evening - not yet in his club gear, he wears jeans and a flannel shirt - the bartender, the woman sweeping in the corner. Mutant-welcoming or not, old habits die hard. "I never been to Cape Cod." Whether it's been modesty or paranoia that's kept her ghostly, save for those moments when savoring the scotch, Nox becomes whole and solid for Jim's demonstration. If only for a moment, if only to close her eyes and draw a deep breath into newly formed lungs. The murmur that follows is wordless but pleased. She's slow to fade. "I miss that the most, I think. The smells. It's so easy to forget the smells and how they touch you. Thank you," she says after. "It's a type of architecture. A type of home. If you need a place, Mister Morgan, a place to be away, to be safe, you can ask plainly." "Can't say it's not tempting," Jim watches the woman form from the shadows grimly, holding the form for her a few long moments, until she's able to take what simple pleasures there are from it -- and then folds in fingers, forming a fist that pulls in pastel blooms along with it. Only flaky knuckles and human flesh remain. "But my place is up here. In my shitty apartment. With my shitty typewriter and my phone. Maybe asking plainly would take all the fun out of it." He's standing up, his eyes lowered to the task, pushing in his stool, so that spoken words rumble out almost in secret, "You ever seen a darkroom?" "Ah, a typewriter. I hadn't though people used those anymore, how refreshing." Nox toys with her glass, fingers still firm enough to manipulate it. The liquor inside is tipped this way, tipped that, just to catch the light. When he stands, she replaces it on the coaster and drifts back from the bar--though not so far that the rumble isn't caught. "I am loath to steal your fun, Mister Morgan. It might surprise you that I have not seen a darkroom. Or have I missed the joke?" "No joke." Jim straightens his jacket collar to align with his nape, yanking it hard into place. "Guess if we're playing quid pro quo, I owe you one. My favorite place?" He turns his back on the woman, head turned to speak over his shoulder only in profile, "Behind a camera. And no fucking dick worth his salt gets their snaps developed at the local /Osco/, you know what I'm saying." He then faces forward, and begins to make his departure. Still, he's speaking, "I think we can work together, Miss Nox. Like a photographer in a darkroom. I'll be in touch." "I'm sure you will, Mister Morgan." The whisper chases him, rich with bemusement. Nox's parting words, thin as last chance, are, "I think that is perhaps the most forward proposition I've ever received." But should he glance back--either just to look or to reply--she's gone.