ArchivedLogs:Shadows and Smoke

Shadows and Smoke
Dramatis Personae Nox, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-05 '
Location <MOR> Below New York
Buried beneath the bustle and noise of New York's busy streets, the world underneath the city is a quieter place. Quieter, but far from deserted. Occasional ladders, often rusting, ascend to the city above and are evidence that at /one/ point these tunnels had been in use, or had been planned for it; perhaps by way of maintenance, or access to subways or sewers. These stretches have been abandoned by civic infrastructure for some time now, though, but occasional scraps of evidence -- discarded food wrappers, piles of tatty blankets or moldering old mattresses, sometimes voices carrying echoes through the dank concrete -- give evidence that /someone/ still uses these tunnels. The rumbling of subway trains sounds frequently through the walls, many of the train routes accessible through various doors and openings. There are many ways into the sewers, more than the typical surface-dweller perhaps realizes. More than they would be entirely /comfortable/ with, in truth. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss. But some of the ignorance of those rescued from Prometheus has been swept away--they were told that the land of sunshine and government agencies was not their only option and if they wished to choose differently, they need only go to this alley, and shift that manhole, and descend to this platform to follow that tunnel... But no further, as it would be better to wait there for whatever escort came to keep them safe and whole in order to descend further. The alley is actually not far from Evolve, the manhole not difficult to shift and the tunnel ends in a round chamber of brick that leads up and up and up towards the surface to end in a grating. Sunshine filters down through that grating, though it’s much diluted before reaching the floor so far below. Likewise, the city noises that come through are distant and muffled. The ground is hard packed earth, a little damp, a little mildewy. Someone has left milk crates for sitting upon, and there is a pack of water-warped cards there to allay the risk of boredom while a person waits, but otherwise it is empty. And surprisingly cosy, for someone who might be expecting rot, and sewage, and discarded needles, and trash. There is one passageway that leads from the chamber, a half-height arch that passes into pitch darkness. Cool air rushes from it on occasion. Parley pays his visit in attire that can’t be said to have /no/ style - just a style so mute it passes purposely beneath a radar scan /for/ style. A nega-style of gray overshirt, unbuttoned over black t-shirt, stonewashed jeans, all clean, though he clearly doesn’t have the fussy nature towards /keeping/ them that way: he also wears practical black lace-up boots to mid-calf that he’s tucked his pants into, not sure what to expect underground. He wanders the interior of the waiting area, seeming rather content with the stimulation provided just existentially. With hands in pockets, he leans against a wall, staring up at the glinting breaths of light shimmering weakly through the grate above, lighting up unsteady strips of dustmotes in the air. His head is cocked, lips partly open. Mouth-breathing idly. The smell here is not as unpleasant as it could be, mostly thanks to the currents of air that drift in through the small exit. /Those/ scents are colder, deeper, /earthier/. Like secrets that can be caught on the tongue and tasted like candy. Small surprise, then, that Nox appears through that portal. Eventually. Parley is left to wait for some time before the patrols lead her by the waiting room. Then the darkness clumped in that arch deepens and the area before it takes on a hazy quality, shadow that defies the weak light drifting from above. There’s no sense of presence that comes with it, she’s too indistinct for that, but a hum reaches him--her version of knocking on a door to alert those present that Nox is here. “...Parley?” She sounds puzzled, then the hum strengthens: laughter. “Parley, yes. Hello to you. You were not one that I expected to find.” Nox’s gradual entrance seems to have built up along the fringes of Parley’s awareness, peripheral, soft, and thus seems to less /shock/ him than cause him to blink when he realizes at some undefined point he has gone from being alone in the dark to being now +1. “Ah-!” It seems only to delight him, and he comes away from the wall with palms held slightly outward as though to keep from walking into a wall, “Ms. Nox. It’s amazing how silent you are; I don’t usually miss people when they approach.” There’s nothing aggressive to it, but he paces wide of her, circling with his head tipped to one side, then the other, inquisitively, so that he hardly seems aware of himself asking, “Were you expecting someone else?” “Of those who are now safe, you were one who seemed most suited to living above.” Nox does not respond to the silence of her means of travel--it isn’t an observation she seems to feel warrants an answer--but part of that darkness reaches forward towards one of Parley’s outstretched hands. It resolves into a hand of her own, fingers spread and palm fitting against his. With that touch comes the cool whisper of her emotions, her perceptions. Vast darkness, stretching back into the egress, amusement, curiosity, those two things so /small/ in comparison to the other. Closer to the surface, furthest from the depths, is a pulse of greeting. “You seem to miss very little, Parley. Is anything wrong?” As she asks, her hand fades away while the rest of her begins to manifest. The shadows stack higher until a fuzzy grey womanshape stands before him, decorated with two immense black eyes and a scattered dusting of white flecks from cheek to arm. Shadow freckles! The press of palms is undemanding, but welcome - a tactile moment of communication that doesn’t flinch in its brief moment of mutual exploration. He accepts the pulse of welcome for what it is, and finds it easier to take her own sentiment and hand it back to her, sleeker, neatened, and with his own scent reapplied with simple appreciation for offering it - << (thank you). >> He tips his hand down to invite her touch deeper up the plane of his inner wrist, where pulse steadily thobs, before watching her slip away to reform into a figure. “I don’t think there are many places I’m unsuited for,” he admits quietly, “I adapt.” It’s not, however, said in a way to suggest moving down here is his plan, studying her face solemnly. << (i’m not the only one)(that watches). >> He demurs, “No, there’s nothing wrong. Well, with me.” Shadow-freckles... on a location that..., “The last time I saw you, you were injured at the gala. I had to see Ms. Basil home, but--.” He runs a hand up the back of his neck, awkward-smiling in the dim light, “--well. This would be less of a production if our lives were such that I could just visit you in the hospital, I suppose. I hadn’t heard about how you were recovering.” So, light-footed as he might try to travel through the lives as others -- he tends to just go out and INVESTIGATE on his own. Peek, glance, to her eyes. “Is this alright?” Awkward-smile causes the shape’s head to tilt. The shadows rearrange, growing more dense, until Nox has a face to match the eyes. Her newly shape lips adopt a smile that could be taken for shy. Or pleased. “Ms. Basil is a good woman, I am glad she had you to escort her safely,” she murmurs--before the body-shape she’s taken fuzzes out of existence, just moments after having appeared. But she isn’t leaving. Nox opts instead to flow forward and curl around the young man, giving him a cloak of shadows to make words and awkward-smiles, and hands-on-nape unnecessary. Her projections are still soft but they are there, velvet-gentle and full of a sort of mild contentment. << (happy)(to be asked)(so sweet kind thoughtful) >> Her voice hums in his ear: “Of course it is alright. It was good of you, to think of me. I heal. The burns were not so deep as they could have been.” << (peripheral damage)(should not have been there)(but sometimes one can’t help one’s self yes?)>> Parley closes his eyes, leaning (sagging) into the compression of shadows around him tentatively at first, not wanting to tax her. If she seems amenable, he will probably lean more. Each velvet-soft from the dark is soaked in, even the darkness welcome in the soft gray neutral ground, washing through and then washing /out/ with his presence. The feeling of ‘Nox’ in the room is heavier, the feeling of territory one experiences when they are alone in a room while the unique signature of ‘Parley’ softly fades. There’s no indication this is to his detriment, as he’s mild as well, in her flow of contentment. << (it is hard)(staying out of things.) >> This last concept fragment is /almost/ tipped towards the rueful negative, as one might associate with the word ‘meddling’. “Not as bad as they could have been,” he comments with a simple /frankness/, “only means you were not killed.” It’s not a chastisement, though, as many might word it as - ultimately agreeing, if anything, “But you are alive. I’m glad you’re recovering.” Pause - and he can’t help but add, “I never imagined I’d see Ms. Tatters in a dress. She seems built for informality.” << (and you,)(formality.)(strange?) >> There is plenty of Nox around to offer support. The more Parley sags, the more she is there buoying him up, cradling him. It is not unlike peeking out of a plane’s window and imagining how it must feel to be able to nest in the clouds. She’s there, she’s /not/ there, he doesn’t fall, only darkness is keeping him from it. But it comes with the benefit of more of her, mind-voice-being strengthening. Parley could disappear into those shadows and they would not stir--and it is so cool and quiet there, so immense. <<(hard)>> She agrees. <<(when one can, one must)(imperative)(poor children)(they felt it too)>> Something less fuzzy and indistinct idly smooths down his hair over his brow, they way a mother would when soothing a baby into naptime. Nox simply cannot help herself. Maternal instincts, they are as eternal as night. Mm, Tatters. <<(lovely)(inside and out)>> “Dresses are not her chosen attire,” she hums out amusement, “but I enjoyed the fairy tale while it lasted.” And like that amusement grows wistful. <<(it was beautiful)(surface lovely)>> Sigh. “You have been well? And Ms. Basil? Still fighting the good fight?” “To her last breath,” Parley sighs as well; Nox’s incorporeal being may not truly breathe, but his rhythms are falling into hers as well, so that his sigh may as /well/ align with her own respiration, as he washes out into his environs - all of them, all of them /Nox/ now, and his rhythm is a quiet inward << (purr.) >> to match her hum - and allows /her/ to wash deep into him. “She’s a warrior.” Or maybe he only says it, because << (-warrior)(of light). >> echos through this shared dark space with grim admiration and protectiveness. “I stay busy.” << (odd amalgam of what ‘busy’ means - a swimming pool? a plate of sushi? paperspaperspapers/translation/communication?) >> He lets his knees curl, head tipping to the side, lax, and says abruptly: “It was lovely. We should have our own party. One that /doesn’t/ invite explosions.” “A Knight,” Nox supplies, murmur dancing with hidden laughter. She’s curled completely around him now, allowing him the not unpleasant sensation of floating in midair. The hair-stroking continues, joined by a manipulation of his shoulders, his back. Shadow massage at its finest, if only to encourage purring felt within rather than out. “She should meet Tatters. Or did they. They are alike though.” Moments pass then, the urgency to immediately reply fading into the sort of time-sense that darkness possesses. It is not dissimilar from that of trees, or the ocean. Quiet. Movement. Being. Then a thread of consideration. <<(busy - pale things stirring in the darkness - a ruined face - fireworks and flowers blooming on a wall over which a home rises lit with precious light)>> These are gradually, eventually, replaced with the thought of the rooftop garden. <<(Jax has suggested gardening soon)(lovely there)(night time party?)>> She whispers, “But I am not certain he is in a place for parties at the moment.” Hanging in this woven net of dark eternity, Parley doesn’t seem aware of the small ‘heh’ he makes when his hair is mussed, the purr thickening in the depths of that smokeygray-and-velvetblack shared region between them. His fur ripple-shivers over the loose skin across his shoulders, the small nuts and bolts of muscle-knots that are beginning to form, slightly sore at the moment, from his budding routine at the gym, radiant with a very simple, very sincere appreciation. << (knight) >> he agrees. He only surfaces from this calm mingling when conversation resumes naturally, agreeing: << (something quiet)(something he has a say in). >> His references to Jackson are cautious somehow, more possessed, though in direct reference it’s not from callous - just carefully... from ‘afar’, harkening to clean twinkling light from a careful hunker, where the light won’t be sullied. Or reflected off of. << (he has very little control of his life right now.)(would be good to see.) >> There’s a long assessing quiet, churning with thoughts. And he adds, quieter: “The children at the gala. The Sons of Magneto.” He rolls his shoulders, stretching the muscles and then easing them again. “They weren’t recaptured.” During that quiet, Nox curls soft and almost resigned agreement through those impressions. What is to be done? Nothing she can think of except to welcome the boys to the sewers and no, that would be plucking beams from the sun. <<(something quiet)(something small)(something precious)>> -and it is here that thoughts intrude, rippled like catching a glimpse of a calico fantail on a pond. A man, emerald eyes, blond hair. The ripples shift and accommodate Parley’s movement. She presses up where he arches, only lightly supports those parts that he shifts down. She is the world’s best mattress--made moreso when she hums quietly, buzzing all around him. Not many can tease apart which hum is amusement, which is pleasure, which is simply “pleased”. But he would be able to and she is fiercely pleased to know it. “Where are they? Are they safe?” On one surface, Parley indulgently fingerwalks nimble touches over each of these different vibrations, ‘showing’ them to her with a great relaxed sigh at the simple comfort of sharing, tactile interaction. Something equally prominent on another surface, the one of shared physical surface area, where he’s snuggled into the PERFECT MATTRESS (it even dims the lights for you!) with a wry << (careful.)(i’ll sleep on you.)(we’ll get nothing done.) >> But on a deeper surface, there’s something distant and sad. << (we’ll watch.)(we’ll plan.) >> With a reluctant sigh, he straightens, slipping his feet lightly to the ground to reclaim his body weight through the pull of gravity. << (we’ll think of what we can.)(i’ll help any way i can.) >> This last suggests something like ‘resources’ - budding influence, though with only a tentative push yet, and much more confidently: money. He is not /underpaid/ in his work for Claire. And has very few bills and no debt to his name. “I can’t tell you more at this point,” he says with a trace of apology. “I don’t mind you telling others that you’ve /heard/ it, but if you could avoid telling anyone that it was me that even told you that much...” At either side, his hands spread out, gently caressing shadows. “--I just thought you should know.” The buzzing increases, deepening in pitch and strength. <<(it would not be the first time)(I enjoy it)(you are welcome to it)>> But Nox is quick to compensate when he signals a desire to leave. She aids him in standing, applies one last smoothing stroke to his hair, to his shoulders and back to remove any wrinkles, and then withdraws towards the tiny tunnel. With her goes the sense of deep, dark, huge places. For her, resignation is in using her whispers again. “I would not, will not tell, Parley. You have my word. Mmm, it is likely I will forget soon in any case, except for knowing that they are away, not held or taken by the cages.” Nox is careful to maintain a note of amusement here, lest joke too easily slip into ruefulness or even sorrow. “You are doing well for yourself. I am proud of you.” “I believe you,” Parley says simply, smiling small. A touch drab. Along her farthest-most parameters, he grooms on her, like a mental rasped tongue. It’s, deep down, a micro-channeling, reflecting her own state of mind back to her, but sterilized, cleaner, less personal. This, while heading for his own exit, at no particular rush. Echoing down the tunnel, his voice carries to her, “Ahh? Give me some time.” One foot in front of the other, he travels on his way towards the exit, his last spoken words: “I’ve only just started.” His last mental, light as her own need to joke: << (be well.) >> And then he’s gone.