Logs:Candidate Moves

Candidate Moves
Dramatis Personae Matt, Zeyta
In Absentia White Queen	2024-08-18 "As you might imagine, that leaves my hands in many pots." (Part of Lean In plot.)
Location <HFC> Sanctum - Hfc Basement
This luxurious basement lounge is circular, largely taken up by a conversation pit lined with plush bench seating all upholstered in gold velvet. An octagonal table occupies the center, its surface crafted from gleaming black glass. There are four gaps in the circle of couches, two admitting stairs that descend into the pit. The other two postmodern gas fireplaces, each in a shallow brass bowl, one sitting on a black marble plinth, the other white, one topped with a white organically curved flue, the other black. Ringing the conversation pit is a raised gallery containing two recessed, U-shaped booths that can be screened off for a modicum of privacy, two exquisite tropical fish tanks--one salt water, one fresh--two restrooms, neither marked for any particular gender, and a bar opposite the entrance. Between these, the walls are decorated with exquisite artwork from all around the world, paintings and sculptures and pottery and masks. Sometimes, it can be hard to tell when the new Bishop is actually working, but today Matt is here tabbing through an honest-to-gods spreadsheet dense with numbers. That's not to say he's sitting in any kind of serious businesslike configuration, draped somewhat catlike as is often his habit across two couch cushions with his head propped up in one hand, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, and the tablet propped in the crook of his leg, stylus waving to music only he can hear when it's not in use. He's attired, too, in his usual fashion--today's rendition is a lavender dress shirt, french cuffs linked with tiny iridescent ammonite fossils, a black tie with leafy arabesques in purple and a green vest with the same pattern in black, gray trousers, and black wingtip derbies. There's an elegant white china saucer and cup on the table in front of him, the tea in it alas long drained while he is still engrossed. The sweltering afternoon heat confines luxury indoors, or at least from the climate controlled cabin of a vehicle to the air conditioned interior of buildings. Between, Zeyta marches to a brusque--but not hurried--tempo, sunlight glinting off designer sunglasses and shade cast by the bouncing brim of an oversized sunhat. Both she discards one inside, entrusted to the silent attendance of waitstaff in the periphery, a wordless exchange that does not impede her momentum. So goes her descent to the basement. The hem of her a-line silhouetted maxi-dress sways around her ankles as she approaches, a vision in diaphanous, muted magenta accented by blooms of dusty rose with the occasional burst of powdered blue. Her footwear adds loft to otherwise diminutive stature, platform sandals with entwining straps lacing up her legs. Jewelry adorns her haltered neckline and fingers, understated and simple, albeit doubtless a small fortune in gold and gemstones. Clutched lightly in one hand, the final accessory to her ensemble: the tiniest, most impractical of handbags; very camp, very ridiculous. Such is the image that presents itself before Matt, deliberate intrusion a methodic, slow-rounding approach upon the ensconced Bishop, her voice a piercing arrow through the void created by concentration. "You know, I have oft been told Sunday is a day of rest." At the sound of Zeyta's approach Matt first raises his vivid green eyes without stirring from his pose, his appraisal neither prurient nor entirely disinterested. When he does stir it's only to push himself languidly upright, but his smile comes much more readily, bright and warm. "Ah, you must be Ms. Roth-Mirza! How lovely it is to meet you." He sets the tablet and stylus aside and sweeps a welcoming hand toward the sectional, which is more than capacious enough to accommodate his (admittedly not very manly) manspreading without curtailing Zeyta's space. "Won't you join me for a spot of tea? Or coffee, or whatever else strikes your fancy of a Sunday when you are not, yourself, at rest." An imperious sparkle of topaz gazes back at Matt, brimming with cold calculation as her lips peel back in a smile toothsome and disarming before it fades into her usual stoic expression. Zeyta dips her chin forward in acknowledgement, "The pleasure is all mine, really." Thus invited, she sinks into a position of recline opposite of him, all crossed legs and narrow shoulders with both hands folding over the handle of her teeny-tiny handbag in the middle of her lap. "Mmm, club soda, lemon wedge." Presumably someone will provide this to her, with neither she nor Matt being expected to self-serve. "I'm not one much given to idle downtime, though I assure you jaunting about town is far from, ah, laborious." Unabashed, her eyes tick down to his work implements. "Fie upon those who would tell us when to rest." Matt has resumed a slightly more engaged version of his earlier pose, one arm draped casually on the back of the couch. "You are eager to dive in, then." This is not a question and he does not wait for her to answer it. "I understand this is not your first jaunt around the block, and I'm sure that you are perfectly competent to find your own way, but please indulge me a bit of hospitality before you quite settle in." He inclines his head when the concierge who materializes to bring Zeyta her refreshment also refills his tea unprompted. "What is your métier? Vocation or avocation, whatever you would bring down here. Have brought," he corrects himself without any hint of self-deprecation. "We have a few balls in the air at the moment. Politics, finance, real estate..." He waves his hand vaguely. "...miscellaneous." "A sentiment I share generally towards anyone telling me to do anything," Zeyta muses, fully aware of the irony in juxtaposition: a pawn telling this to a bishop, smiling in demure deference and a fluttering of lashes. She pauses, contemplative as she accepts her beverage, guiding the tip of the metal straw to her mouth, lips pursed around it as much in thought as drinking. "My metier? Why, being fabulously wealthy of course." A flick of the wrist indicates her miniature handbag, as if encapsulated by its symbolic meaning. Clearing her throat, allowing for her typical preemptive verbal tick of, "Mm," she elaborates, "I lawyer, but I do not think that quite so applicable here...and I think politics more fun at the interpersonal level." Another brief silence, before she concludes, "Resources bring me here. Sustaining them, growing them, diversifying them--all in the interest of securing and furthering our autonomy. As you might imagine, that leaves my hands in many pots." Matt settles his face against his hand again--less comprehensively, just a light lean against a splay of fingers, his eyes still smiling even if his lips do not. "I rather enjoy telling people what to do." He does not sound particularly dismayed at this mismatch of interests. "But I can enjoy it all the same if it's something they want to do." He pushes himself upright again to fetch his tea, just to breathe it in. "Goodness, but you cast a wide net." His smile returns, wide and delighted. "And you've come at the just right moment for it. The Brood invasion upended the whole world, to be sure, but this city most of all. We fill the voids that it left and pick up the pieces that fell out. The real estate shakeup you can no doubt extrapolate, but there's plenty more to be done if that interests you." He indicates his tablet's now-quiescent screen with an elegant turn of his hand. "Now as for diversifying--a wealth of entirely novel resources did literally fall out of the sky. The black market for alien technology is still in its infancy." He raises the cup to his lips but still holds back from sipping, if only just. "Our Queen is quite adept at exploiting the young." Zeyta creases her mouth around the straw of her club soda, capillary action and bubbles conveying another hydrating sip. When she sets it back on the table, she reaches for the linen napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth, careful not to wipe the layer of sheer lipgloss over her lips. "Consider me a modern day woman of the Renaissance," she muses, attentive as he speaks to the recent extraplanetary events visited upon the city. "I'll put my people in touch with yours. I'm sure the real estate market is ripe, and of course there are strategic acquisitions, but I imagine you'll have your own preferences in mind." The mention of technology earns her more singular focus, with an, "Ah. Clandestine affairs only last so long. Surely there is a way to capitalize on that technology legally. I'll ponder it." The compulsory pleasantries of the upper echelon might keep them together longer for aimless chit-chat, but eventually the two part, Zeyta herself charged with ideas and ulterior motives as she perhaps fires off a text or two--to whom, well, it's anyone's guess but the world is small.