ArchivedLogs:Show Some Hospitality

Show Some Hospitality
Dramatis Personae Masque, Nox	2013-04-01 Masque comes calling, Nox welcomes him with opened arms!
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's something in the tunnels! Something that does not belong, red, hunched, hooded and dragging. What is it this time? A monster? No, not quite. A man. A man who, judging from the way he traverses the long corridors without so much as a glance upwards, has either ceased to care which way is which... or already knows /exactly/ where he's going by the look of the filthy floor below alone. Indeed, the way he anticipates a turn before it even comes up suggests the latter is the case. Masque has returned. He is not lost, and he is definitely /going/ somewhere along that oh so familiar route. But despite his confidence in navigation, there is an air of... modest reluctance about him. Like a stray mutt, returning to a home it ran away from only after it managed to meet the bumper of a speeding car. That comparison is further helped along by the fact that he's limping, left foot proving considerably less cooperate than his right. He has seen better days. Then that will make two of them. Released from the hospital only yesterday, Nox too has crept back to the tunnels. Hers was a far /warmer/ reception than any Masque is likely to receive and while she might have been urged to rest, relax, take it easy for a little while longer... Well, the shadow knows that the tunnels wait for no one. Things get into them and when that happens, people who matter must be warned. Especially now that it's spring, and the Hounds are likely to begin rousing themselves. So. Masque in the tunnels. Nox in the tunnels. It's only a matter of time before the way before him is barred by what looks like a solid pit of darkness, marred here and there with faint streaks of sickly healing grey. "Masque," she whispers, all around him. "To what do we owe this pleasure." That pit is looked upon with a similar amout of familiarity as the tunnels themselves as Masque's gait falters, then halts. He plants a hand onto a wall and straightens, his head angling upward to let what little light is here fall upon it as the hood slides back over his head with the shift in weight. The whisper sends his eyes darting from shadow to shadow for a second, before he narrows them at those curious little streaks of grey. Intriguing. "Nox, Nox, Nox..." He breathes, voice like gravel, as he steadies himself against that wall. "I was lookin' to talk. And I ain't even have any hostages this time, y'see?" He waves a bony hand to his side-- a hand marred by a still partially healing scar across its palm. "Now how about you show me some hospitality and show me your pretty face." "Hospitality is for those who have earned it, not those who have spurned our halls. Hold still and show you mean only to talk, Masque. I intend to search you." Which is to say, Nox will /not/ show him anything resembling a face. But wisps of shadow curl free from the wall, floor and ceiling, delicate as fern fronds. These rise or dangle as need be to pat over him, slipping beneath the hood to probe in allllll of the fun places a weapon might be secured. As they work on that, others are performing a more cursory inspection of the apparent injuries. His hand, his foot. They're prodded as well before Nox withdraws. "Did someone catch up with you finally?" It is rare for Masque to assume he will need weapons other than his hands alone, and as such, Nox finds nothing upon him but his clothes. Even his pockets are empty. The injured hand, though healing from something that apparently worked all the way from his palm to the back of his hand, has scarred up a little more ragged than it used to look. The foot-- well. It's not pretty in the left boot he's got on, which still has a /bullet hole/ in it. Underneath are bandages stuffed between foot and leather. Bandages that probably should have been changed a few days ago. And it is /warm/. In fact, he's kind of warm all over. A fever? He lets it all happen, staying put as his fingers press tighter against the wall- there little he can do to stop Nox, after all. However much he loathes it. "No one /caught up/ with me." His faux niceness is dropped at the assumption, jaw clenching as his glare moves from one bit of shade to the next. He fails, however, to come up with a follow-up sentence. Gradually the wall before him resolves into a hazy shape. Not the woman this time but a golem form tall enough that its head brushes the ceiling, and its shoulders each wall. The face is /not/ the pretty one he'd requested and is pocked from cheek to right wrist with spots of grey--healing marks, if he's happened to spy the damage light does to Nox on previous occasions. The golem folds its arms and looks down at him, sketched-in mouth set in a single thin line. Unattractive and stern and every bit the barrier she'd posed for him before--not the happiest of homecomings for the unfortunate in his tattered red hood. "No? Why then have you chosen now to come talk? And what would you like to speak about, Masque? You know that Tatters is not pleased with you. Calisto less so. You have been very bad." A golem it might be, but Masque still visibly relaxes when that shape at least takes the form of something he can treat as a conversational partner. And his eyes lay on that marked, unattractive face the very same way as they would on her usual one. Piercing, searching. /Occasionally/ and very briefly showing just a pang of greed. "Old news, little spy. Years old." His voice grates again, tongue swiping past dry lips and crooked teeth before he draws slightly closer to that tall shape. As if it really was just little Nox. But his steps are slow, his steps on that injured foot utterly /careful/ and unstable. "But I have no quarry with any of you, anymore. So I've come down here to... /negotiate/." A pause, that marred side of his face twitching uncomfortably into what could really either be half a smile or a scowl. "Is your mommy in so I can speak with her?" The golem's head ever so slightly tilts as if it were thinking this over. At the same time, the shadows that linger against the wall spit out other tendrils. They zip in front of Masque in a zigzag of dark webbing to bar further progress. They fizzle away, should he reach for them. Tsk tsk. "Negotiate," Nox muses, again her voice coming from all around the man rather than from the doll she's set up in his way. "Am I to take it that you have reformed, then? You wish to make peace? To return /home/?" Even she cannot keep a note of skepticism from staining the tone that she uses. "You will stay here until you tell me just what you intend to propose, Masque." There is a certain look of anger from Masque when those tendrils block his path, but it doesn't last long- it would have, but a slightly awkward step causes it to disappear in a wince, instead. Shifting his weight to his good foot, he attempts to right himself again. Breathing. Deeply. Calmly. Forcibly. The answers to her questions lie in his mind, but suffer a delay. He's /thinking/, half-lidded eyes fixed on the Golem's face even as he is spoken to from /all around/. "I so loathe this thing you do." It sounds like a /command/, even if none is given. "I suspect that is the only thing that we have in common." Golem does not budge. It simply continues to gaze at him, impassive and unmoved by his pique--until Nox seems to decide that faces are JUST TOO TEMPTING. That's when the doll's face just fades away, leaving a lumpy head atop broad shoulders but no features that could lure Masque's...unique abilities. As further bait, the shadows /behind/ the man behind to plump up, stacking higher and higher until there's something perfectly chair-height just behind his knees. "Would you care to sit while you answer me? You appear to be suffering." "/No/." Comes Masque's reply, as annoyed it is utterly terse. In response to the golem's head disappearing, he turns on his good heel to look around again, one eye narrowing just that slight bit more than the other. That shadowchair is simply ignored after a single, grimace-accompanied glance. "This ain't my home. You have made sure of that. What I wish for it to be is somewhere I can trust not to be /found/. Not to be /assaulted/." A pause, as his fingers curl inward with a tremble from his inured hand. Breathing still laboured. "In return, I'm afraid I can hardly offer more than my word not to do any harm during my stays. And, of course, my services. Which I will remind you, are capable of as much good as they are otherwise." He's annoyed and the words flow from his mouth as though they were rehearsed, but... there is a sort of reluctance, there. A reluctance that may not be there if he was lying, unless he is just very good at it. Curious. And curiouser. The tunnel is silent for a time, the shadows melting back to leave him in relative peace for a moment. Maybe two. Then, before him, then begin to gather again. This time Nox deigns to show herself in her usual form, the same dull grey smudges marking her shape where it had the golem's. Her eyes are brighter though, and larger, and tilted up to study the old man's face. It may or may not be a test that she's materialized within arm's reach. "It is good to be safe," she agrees, soft and thoughtful. "To have a place. To have people." She pauses for a beat before asking a proving question: "Will you heal Calisto?" Wrinkles form across Masque's nose and the corners of his eyes as Nox stares at him. Not exactly a /friendly/ face, but through what is either a show of good faith or pure strategy, his hands do not move for that face now so very near. They don't even budge. However tempting it may be. And oh, it is so VERY tempting. And the tides may yet change, waves waiting to crash into the cliffside if permitted. His face hardens, jaw muscles tightening. "What's between me and her is between /me and her/. Ain't relevant." This is less a test of impulse than one of /stamina/. Nox remains there. Standing. Right in front of him. As she thinks for another protracted period of time. And all the while, the almondine black of her gaze flicks over his face, taking in every tiny twitch of muscle, every subtle adjustment of expression. Her own is solemn. She's watching--and isn't that what she's always done best? "What affects one affects all," she says finally, "and if you are to return then there shall be conditions. Heal Calisto. Accept that you will be followed and observed. Contribute to the well-being of the group. Say that you will accept these three things now and I will take you to speak with the others. Perhaps they will have other conditions. But accept these three and you may continue on, under escort." Masque provides Nox with plenty of twitches, both voluntary and less so. His expression never once manages to manifest into one thing particularly, but traces of annoyance and indecision are clearly visible. But it's not hatred, spite or any of the more /actively harmful/ wishes Nox has seen infect Masque's expressions before. He's not here for any of that. But... he also didn't come here for this. "I do not answer to you." His voice is quiet, now, strained, just short of a growl. His eyes stay on Nox's. "And I ain't walking straight into a place I might not be welcome." There is another aggravated twitch of his face, and his weight shifts once more. Forward an inch, first, then... back. He steps back, his injured foot disallowing him the stability he wishes for upon doing so, hand reaching out to the wall once more. "Let who matters come to /me/." "No, I would not take you back there, no more than you wish to go. But there is a chamber not far from here. There is food. Water. A light. Where you may rest and wait while I fetch them." Nox seems untroubled by the twitches. It's the /lunges/ one has to be careful about. She remains as she was, hands folded before her. The world's primmest nightmare. "If it is not a blow to your pride, I can show you there now." Now it is Masque's turn to be silent, looking awfully like he might be reconsidering his intentions. But the lunges are absent, even if he proves slightly more restless now, his free hand unfurling only to be shaped back into a fist while that hand on the wall seems to do its best to try and dig into it. To no avail, nails scraping over damp stone. Her words roll around in his head as he inhales, slowly, and exhales back in the slowest sigh he can manage. "Pride." He then echoes, finally tearing his eyes away from Nox to glare down at his own foot, instead. "No place in this world for /pride/." This is not something he wishes to argue about, and so before she can comment on that, he quickly adds in a tone one might use when talking to a small child, "Come on, then, little spy. Lead the way. You can tell me who /hurt/ you on the way." Nox stands until he's made his decision. Surely she's noticed the way he scrabbles at the rock but no comment is made--none need be made, it's enough that she doesn't blink as she observes the man. She knows /he/ knows. Why else her nickname? Once he's chosen the chamber with amenities, she fades from his line of sight and reappears behind to begin leading the way down the tunnel. Her shadows follow behind her, clustering close to keep the light in here just enough to allow Masque to see ahead. She doesn't look back--but doesn't need to, because if /he/ glances back he will see that a band of darkness is following as well, obscuring where they've come from. "Are you jealous, Masque? Or simply curious? Or perhaps you wish to offer up vengeance in exchange for your place." Masque's way forward is with its expected limitations- he is slow, his steps careful and calculated. The pain is clearly impeding him, but he is not above stifling noises of pain as he goes about using the injured foot either way. Whether or not that is wise. His uninjured hand swipes across his forehead, palm briefly pressing against it. "I think you know better than to think I would do /that/ much to clear my name." He speaks, through gritted teeth. Not yet looking back, steely, deadish gaze ahead of him. "Curious. Did someone catch you peepin' through the cracks?" "Surprisingly, I do not believe that it had anything to do with me. I was peripheral and placed myself in a position I should not have," Nox responds quietly. Her voice comes from beside his shoulder now, focused to be better heard as they move through the tunnels. Her shape at least still moves ahead. Eyes fixed forward...and a second pair fixed backwards, to observe him. The shadows may or may not press in closely now, on the off chance that he stumbles or collapses. "You will be pleased to know that I was in the hospital for several days." Masque's head dips again as he limps forth, hood falling lower over his face. But he is still watching. That laboured breathing quickens as the shadows draw nearer, failing to take either it or the comment about Nox being incapaciated as anything remotely positive. But his expression has turned to something only mildly annoyed. And even then, it's only present on that one side of his face. Mostly, he just looks tired. When he speaks up again, he does so calmly. "What do /you/ think I'm here for, Nox?" Nox has never been very good at lying. She either avoids answering through diversion or speaks the truth. After several moments of silence, filled only with the sound of one person's breathing and dragging steps, she says quietly, "I believe that you are physically weak. I believe that whomever did this to you might still be looking for you, and if they are not, you are concerned about others taking advantage of your weakened state. I believe you have weighed the negatives and come to the conclusion you are safer surrounded by others, even if those others dislike you. You have nowhere else to go, Masque. So you have come here." The tunnel comes to a T. She takes the right fork, pace matching his. And Masque follows obediently, a dismayed grimace returning gradually to his face as he listens to the words around him. "It doesn't take a genius to see I'm /weakened/." He spits the last word out as though it were poison in his throat. And with every word he says after it, eith every step, anger wells up from inside of him. "I have other choices. Places to go that don't have people who would go out of their way to fucking mock--" Hrgh. His eyes press shut for a moment, having landed a step just slightly too painfully to ignore. But he pushes forward again a second later. Muttering through gritted teeth, "I came here by /choice/." "I am not mocking you. You asked why I thought you were here. I answered you plainly, Masque." Nox pauses, or at least the figure ahead of him pauses. It lingers while he gets his feet beneath him, and when he starts forward again, there are hands slipping beneath his arms to help maintain balance. To take some of the weight off of that injured foot. The eyes on the back of Nox's head blink solemnly at him. "Why is it that you have chosen to return here, if you have other places to go?" she asks. Though the gut response given at the slipped in arms is a probably rather expected scowl, Masque does not fight it. Not even a little, adjusting to try and walk as comfortably as possible, pace picking up. His answer comes soon afterward, though he fails to look at those eyes ahead of him as he limps forward. "There are worse places, higher up." The anger has left him again, for now. The silence Nox puts out has a different tone to it this time--though how that is possible can only be a trick of her mutation. Maybe the depth of shadows around them both seems softer. When she does speak again, it's only to say, "It is just ahead." And it's true! Through a small porthole--through which she also assists him--there is a tiny square room. In one corner there is a stack of blankets, in another a milk crate turned upside down to serve as a makeshift table for an oil lamp, a package of crackers with a pop-top can of tuna, and a bottle of water. This is the limit of the amenities but no water drips down from the ceiling, and it's relatively clean. As sewers go. "Do you require anything else before I go to tell the others?" Nox asks him? Masque gives the room a squint, his eyes scanning the floor, ceiling, walls and items between them. Eventually, he moves, lopsidedly, toward an empty corner in order to sit on the floor. "No." He doesn't sound like he's given the question an awful lot of thought, adding only afterward, "All I need is to know where I stand." Shoo. Once he's seated, he closes his eyes and drags a hand down the left side of his face, fingers sliding across deformed skin and muscles. "Gotta say. Thought you'd send me packin'." Somehow, in spite of having chosen a different corner, the blankets end up sliding across the floor to rest beside him. They're olive green, rough Army issue, but the wool does what wool does best--retains heat, even when wet. Nox the Body slowly fades from the room, the shadows in the corners near the ceiling taking on starker definition. "I might still do so but you have given no cause. Your actions will determine your reception, Masque. But one suspects you know that. If you need anything, just call out. I will be listening." While she fetches the others? Perhaps. It /is/ dark down here, and who knows how far her reach extends.