Logs:Breadsticks

Breadsticks
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Murphy	2023-05-14 "Maybe I'll manage to get another stamp on my 'frequent parricide' card."
Location <NYC> La Vie en Rose // the Belfry - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens
The clerestory of the old cathedral--and of the new annex--has been converted to an airy restaurant with stunning views in all directions, especially the iconic Manhattan skyline framed by the river, the Kennedy Bridge, and the plentiful green spaces of Astoria and Randall's Island. Like the rest of the hotel, it harmonizes neoclassical grandeur with sleek modern luxury, the plentiful greenery brightening the space clearly a part of the design from the very start and not in any way an afterthought. The kitchen occupies the center of the cross, with multiple points of access to each wing for the staff's ease of access. The seating options range from small, intimate nooks to long tables with a dozen chairs, meticulously laid out to optimize lighting, views, and space for all patrons. A wide semicircular balcony has been added onto the western end, bracketed into a crescent by one curve of the bar's unusual mandorla shape. Set into the gable end above the bar is one of the building's original rose windows, lovingly restored and luminous from both within and without. There probably ought to be a law against what Murphy Law is wearing right now -- a black dinner jacket utterly crowded with patterned flowers, their petals colored an obnoxiously brilliant flame-yellow at the center, before shifting to orange, black, yellow again -- and finally surrounded by a corona of hydrogen-blue. The effect is more or less akin to having several very colorful bunsen burners going at full blast. Under that, a clean, crisp black collared shirt -- gives off a real 'Andy Warhol meets Alex Jones' energy. A member of the wait-staff is politely, frantically trying to lead him to a table as he strides past him with the confident swagger of a man who never looks at a menu before ordering. "It's quite fine, garçon," he announces, putting a (terrible) French accent on that last word -- his hand pats the paper bag he has curled up under one arm. 'OLIVE GARDEN: When You're Here, You're Family'. "I've brought my own fine cuisine." He is currently honing in like a homing missile on Lucien's current position. There ought to be a law, and perhaps at this very moment the restaurant's owner is sorely wishing he had made a Proper Dress Code. Granted, by the loosely-outlined standards of the establishment, Murphy is dressed appropriately -- nobody can doubt he has put his own striking flair into his outfit. He is far more eye-catching than Lucien is, at the moment, dressed in charcoal three-piece suit with blue pinstripes in a sleek modern cut that minimizes his impressive musculature, a single buttonhole on each cuff also picked out in blue, a blue and black floral brocade tie, a very pale gray dress shirt cinched with simple yet strikingly iridescent labradorite cufflinks, and black monk shoes with a subtle embossed floral scrollwork. Is he here to eat? It is hard to say -- at the moment he's been waylaid by a patron, slightly tipsy by the bar and chattering at him in enthusiastic French. Lucien has been giving the man rapt attention but is now -- slightly distracted by the eyesore coming his way. Thankfully, the customer still bending his ear is too buzzed to notice the very pinched look at briefly crosses his face. Lucien does not quite manage to disentangle himself from the conversation in time to avoid Murphy's interception -- he's just in the middle of making a polite apology to the man at the bar when that Terrible Jacket hoves into his orbit. "Murphy. I assure you, our kitchen here is more than capable." The Terrible Jacket is now in the process of leaving orbit and instead prepping for landing. Murphy closes in on Lucien like a satellite in a rapidly decaying orbit, threatening to burn up in atmosphere during re-entry. He snorts at the mention of a kitchen: "Please. Do they have endless breadsticks?" The bag thumps down on the bar; he's at least polite enough to put himself on the other side of Lucien, not close to his current companion. Suddenly, a thought occurs to him: "Wait. Do they?" He actually seems intrigued by this prospect, though he's swiftly moving on: "Anyway, I... uh, did I miss something?" He tilts himself to the left, peeking past one of Lucien's immaculate shoulders at his company... with a glare that's ever-so slightly suspicious. You been seeing other mother-killers behind Murphy's back, Lucien? "Here you are insulting our offerings before even learning what they are. -- {Forgive me,}" he's addressing the the tipsy patron at the bar here, in quiet French once more, "{some fans have so little respect for boundaries.}" He plucks up the Olive Garden bag, tucking it under one arm and taking the crook of Murphy's arm with his other hand, to steer the man towards the exit back into the hotel proper. "Pardon," he is murmuring quiet, now, "the date must have slipped my mind entirely." When is the last time an appointment slipped Luci's obsessively-organized mind entirely? Certainly never in Murphy's memory. Murphy looks to be about to say something smarmy in response to Lucien's comment, but the way Lucien reaches out to take his arm -- steering toward the exit -- kills the smarm before it leaves his lips. Eyebrows go up, and Murphy tags along -- a garishly colored cartoon in stark contrast to Lucien's polished professionalism. And yet -- the instant Lucien mentions the date slipping his mind entirely -- the cartoon drops. He's still wearing that ridiculous 'flower-power' jacket, but beneath its brightly-colored garishness lies a cold practicality; a tranquil, still pool... filled with piranhas. Suddenly, Murphy is like a man approaching the scene of a murder -- a man who is calmly working out if it's one that happened, or is about to. "I am ordering room service," Lucien informs Murphy blandly, as soon as they have left the restaurant, "I hope that will be acceptable to you." He's veering towards the nearest trash can, in order to crumple the Olive Garden bag further and -- -- no, just kidding, he pauses. Unfurls the top of the bag, plucks out the illicitly wrapped breadsticks tucked in there with the rest of Murphy's dinner. Then trashes the bag. Only after this does he release Murphy's arm, offering the other man back one of his own breadsticks as he drifts toward the elevators. "I do apologize. It was quite discourteous of me to forgo our date, only --" He's looking up at the numbers, looking at the little green light just lighting up to signal the opening doors. "-- I have been having a bit of a month." The visible tension in Murphy's shoulders (enough to make the steel cables of a suspension bridge look positively slack in comparison) starts to unravel once Lucien goes about retrieving that breadstick; the gesture is accepted, the breadstick taken -- and immediately... crnch. Snacked upon. He's chewed it up and swallowed by the time they're drifting toward the elevators, Murphy's stance... no longer quite that tense, but still elevated; like he's expecting the breadstick police to leap out from behind a corner at any given moment. He waits behind Lucien, grunting: "It doesn't bother me -- outside the fact that you doing it probably means something. ...does it?" "My brother has gone missing." Is this an explanation? It sounds oddly detached. "The younger, again. Hopefully not to an entire other dimension, this time, but we have no leads." Lucien is stepping into the elevator, ignoring the regular set of buttons and keying open a small panel beneath those -- the unlabeled button beneath also requires his key before the elevator accepts it and begins moving. He taps the wrapped end of the breadsticks lightly against his opposite palm, once more watching the tick of the numbers. "I admit, normally in such a situation you would be one of my first calls for assistance, but --" A faint tension, wan echo of Murphy's hard-corded one, has crept into his posture by the time the door opens again, spilling them out into an elegant and expansive apartment lush with greenery. He does not finish his but. Instead, as he slips his shoes off to tuck them into a small shoe nook: "-- would you like a drink. I do not have neon green sangria." <PRV> The Belfry - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria Nestled just below the belfry and above the gardeners' workshop and storage rooms, this penthouse apartment is accessible only at the proprietor sufferance via a special panel in the elevator and a locked utility stairway. The whole of it is psi-shielded, and equipped with a largely unused power suppression grid as well. Spanning one and a half levels, this space could be mistaken for an extension of the conservatory below, with plentiful bookshelves and greenery spilling from every nook, but even a cursory examination will reveal the personal touches that went into its design, softening the neoclassical aesthetic of the building at large with paradoxically fastidious whimsy. The elevator shaft bridging the full level and the loft is, save for the doors, encased in the coral reef of an immense cylindrical aquarium that houses a thriving tropical community. The sitting room immediately adjoining this is bright and airy, open to the empty half of the story above, with a plush circular sectional couch, a low tea table, a sideboard and a bar, its walls covered with lush trellises where not taken up with recessed bookshelves. Opposite the oceanic entryway on the western wall, tall french doors lead to a crescent balcony with views of the waterfront and city beyond as well as the restaurant terrace and garden far below. To either side of the doors, floor to ceiling waterfall windows feed twin pools connected under a thick glass floor panel, an indoor pond lined with smooth river stones and stocked with hardy freshwater fish. On the other end of the apartment, tucked under the loft and behind the elevator shaft, is a large kitchen bracketed by a pantry on one end and a breakfast nook on the other, its culinary conveniences--even the the refrigerator and ovens--hidden behind opaque glass panels that light up at a touch with lists of their contents. An elegant floating stairway spirals up around the elevator cum aquarium, its balusters and those of the loft's railing above twined with well-trained philodendrons. The long wall of the loft showcases a variety of bows from historical and modern, humble to ornate. A no-nonsense workshop at one end of this gallery stores the less picturesque archery paraphernalia as well as a wide range of tools, striking a quaint contrast with the cozier if no less utilitarian study at the other end. Open offset doorways at either end lead to a capacious bedroom with a king sized bed, its walls graced with myriad orchids and other epiphytes in Greek sconces. The generously sized bathroom is tiled with mosaic scenes from classical mythology and has an entire corner dedicated to the antique clawfoot tub. The walk-in closet is similarly generous, with specialized storage for every imaginable accessory, and a hidden staircase leading to the belfry above and the exit below. Wrrrooonch; Murphy has already taken the next chomp of that breadstick right before Lucien drops the bomb about his brother. Murphy's expression doesn't even flicker. Until Lucien adds 'the younger' -- that causes Murphy to do a brief double-take. Clearly, he thought we were talking about Matt. "...mm." He works on the remainder of his bite, chewing it thoroughly. The rest of the breadstick is wielded in a clenched fist at his side, like he's expecting some thugs to show up on the other end of those doors -- but when lush greenery and an artful interior with a slant toward the neoclassical greet him, he's temporarily at a loss for words. The unfinished wad of breadstick in his mouth needs to be chewed up before he can swallow it -- causing a brief, awkward delay in his reply: "No." He doesn't step forward into the apartment; not even when Lucien steps inside and takes off his shoes. Like he's waiting to be invited in -- verbally or otherwise. "But?" Lucien does not seem particularly fussed about Murphy choosing to linger, vampire-like, on his threshhold. He's heading towards his nearby bar, though; digging out a bowl to tuck the remaining breadsticks into before he retrieves two glasses. Two bottles of Fancy Ginger Ale, a bottle of grenadine (real grenadine, with actual sugar and actual pomegranate.) One of the glasses gets a generous pour of rum. Only once he is garnishing them with cherries plucked delicately out of their blue-and-white glass jar does he reply: "My mother came to pick him up from school. Two weeks ago. They have not yet returned." The sight of two glasses (and one of them clearly being filled with Murphy's favorite on-the-job drink) is enough to give Murphy the permission he needs. He stomps forward, glancing down at Lucien's shoes -- nostrils flaring -- before begrudgingly crouching down to unlace his own. They're big, leather-brown work-boots, complete with ceramic toe plates; not new, by the look of them. Once he's tugged them off, he sets them down besides the elevator -- they're a bit too big to fit into a shoe nook, after all. His stride toward Lucien is interrupted, though, by the announcement of his mother picking him up. Murphy stops, mid-step -- then resumes walking, his stride a little slower, a little more deliberate. His head tilts. "Somebody... posing as your mother...?" "Yes, that was our first thought as well." Lucien is whisking drinks and breadsticks both aside to the tea table and settling himself on one far end of the couch. "Her ID was quite official and valid, and there was no sign of telepathic tampering. I do know several shapeshifters, but, she did not kidnap him, she asked him to leave and he went willingly. I feel an impostor wearing our dead mother's face would have given him at least a little pause." His lips compress, brief. "-- I feel our dead mother in the flesh would also have given him a moment's pause, but --" He is chasing this thought with a generous swallow of his saccharine drink. His other hand lifts, rubbing slowly at the hollows of his eyes between forefinger and thumb. "The signs, such as they are, are strongly indicating -- that I ought to have shopped around before engaging somebody in matricide. I had thought it a fairly straightforward operation." "If it was a shapeshifter, they'd have just looked like somebody he trusts who's alive," Murphy immediately agrees, reaching down to pluck up the glass of grenadine as he starts to pace. He doesn't move toward the couch; instead, he traces his way toward one of the recessed bookshelves -- examining the titles as he thinks aloud, brow crumpled -- his serious expression and posture in striking contrast to the absurdly ridiculous jacket he's wearing. "And getting a fake ID for a dead woman? That makes no goddamn sense. Unless someone's trying to fuck with you," he adds, his gaze drifting from the bookshelf to Lucien. "You got any enemies willing to put this much effort to gaslight the shit out of you? If not, it's probably her." He snorts at the mention of 'shopping around' for matricide; his response comes after a long gulp of the shirley temple. "The shit you seen, you think her coming back from Hell is beyond the realm of possibility? Shit, maybe she's a clone. Or a ghost. Or from the future. Or the past." "It doesn't fuckin' matter. Your mom's back and she's snatched your little brother -- that's all that matters. Start with the paper trail -- she got any property? Old friends? Or..." Murphy's nose wrinkles as if he's just sniffed a particularly nasty fart. "She had ID -- her death certificate. You try pulling it, yet? See what's going on, there." One of Lucien's brows hitches at the mention of enemies ardently dedicated to gaslighting him. "-- until this month, I would have said the woman with the strongest history in that direction was dead. And yet." The ice rattles in Lucien's drink as he sets it down on a coaster. Immediately picks it back up for another swallow. "There is no death certificate." His eyes have fixed steadily on the colorful drink in his glass. "Well. No. I have one. The city -- does not." There is a subtle clink; Murphy turns, his own glass set down upon a nearby table -- giving Lucien a level stare. One can almost see the cogs in his head starting to turn. "The city doesn't have a death certificate. But you do." His brows crumple. "You verified the body, so that makes sense. You did verify it -- right? You saw her body." "Of course I do. There is quite a lot of tedium to tend to after someone has died, and you need the death certificate for nearly all of it. I requested it soon after she passed, and the city had it then. But, now --" Lucien turns his free hand up, fingers spreading in a small shrug. "I saw the body. Perhaps I ought have touched it, as well. I imagined that between you and the coroner, someone involved ought to have verified already if she were dead. My part was only verifying she was my mother." Murphy shakes his head, his eyes drifting off Lucien and toward the tropical fish drifting through the aquarium's coral reef. "Fuck's sake, Lucien. I sat next to a corpse without a pulse for ten minutes just to make sure she didn't pull off a Lazarus act. I've seen naloxone in action enough times to not take any risks. You think this is my first rodeo?" He scoops the glass up again, but doesn't drink -- finger drifting across the rim, still watching that fish. His expression is increasingly grim: "Maybe she's a mutant...? Has some sort of... coming-back-alive power. No, fuck -- that doesn't explain the death certificate or the ID. That shit's hard to undo. She'd need help." "Certainly all our X-Genes did not come through her carousel of sperm donors, but if she ever manifested a power, it's not one we ever knew of. And Matthieu does --" There's just the briefest hitch, here, in Lucien's words. A small crease forming between his brows. "-- tend to know those things." The frown is deepening, now: "How many Olive Gardens do you visit each year, then? I thought we had something special." "Snrk." For just a moment, the growing tension in Murphy's posture slackens; Lucien's comment about the Olive Garden actually manages to pull a smile out of him, though he's trying not to show it. It still lingers, though... with just a hint of something else creeping into his expression as he lifts the glass toward his mouth. Eyes dropping from the fish to the cherry: "It was pretty wild how well it all came together, that night," he comments, taking a swallow -- his tone suspiciously wistful. "Kids out, you with an alibi, her coming off a bender -- drugs right there in the house... almost like the stars were aligning." As the glass lowers, Murphy's eyes drift from the rim to focus on Lucien's face -- watching surreptitiously. "Goodness, please. The Three Sisters were all that needed to align to predict that woman getting high as a kite." Lucien sets his glass down, getting to his feet and drifting over nearer the large aquarium. His frown remains firmly in place as Murphy watches him. "Besides, I hardly believe in that sort of serendipity. If you want Fate to give you some slack, you had best grab her strings and pull until you get some." "...mh." Something else flickers across Murphy's expression; he is, for a moment, unreadable. He lets the thought go -- for now. But it's still lingering there... somewhere in the back of his mind. A seed, slowly gestating. "Well... unless you got somebody else in mind, I can start sniffing around for your brother. Hell, maybe I'll manage to get another stamp on my 'frequent parricide' card." "He isn't the only one. Several of his classmates disappeared from the school shortly after he vanished -- presumably to go looking for him. Jackson Holland's son among them --" Lucien's lips are compressing as he considers. "... I will get you a list." He is slipping his phone out of his pocket as if perhaps he means to do so right now. Or, perhaps, he is just ordering up a proper dinner after all. He shoots a brief and critical look to Murphy as he unlocks the screen. "Do you get a second stamp for killing the same parent twice? We really ought to establish some rules about this kind of thing."