Logs:Dalliance

Dalliance
Dramatis Personae Daiki, Lucien
In Absentia	2021-02-16 "The best acting, I'm told -- the best fiction of any kind -- is always truth."
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Backyard - Greenwich Village
Living in the heart of Manhattan means space is precious, and as such, the yard behind this house is small. It is as exquisitely well-kept as the rest of the place, though; all available space has been meticulously cultivated and transformed into a lush retreat from the concrete and asphalt of the city. The borders of the garden are lined in a wealth of flowers, the selection chosen to provide a panoply of color in all seasons save winter. A grassy rock-bordered pathway separates these from the raised-bed vegetable garden that dominates its center. The far left corner of the garden plays host to a tiny rock-lined pond, goldfish and a pair of turtles living in its burbling water. To one side of the pond is a garden table and set of chairs and presiding over the pond, a large oak tree with a hammock underneath, its branches spreading out over the tall brick wall that screens the entire area off from the city outside. The sudden warm snap is an unexpected if perhaps welcome respite from a damp and snowy February. It's just warm enough for this lunch to be happening out in the back yard, wan sunlight streaming down through the skeletal branches of the old oak tree. The pond hasn't had time to thaw out, but the ice glistens faintly while all around its snowdrops push their way up through the mulch. Flèche is lying beside the table, gnawing contentedly on a peanut butter-filled Kong. Sitting at the same table, Daiki has just straightened back up from stroking the glossy black fur along the sleek mutt's back, and resumed his tea. He's dressed as impeccably and unremarkably as is usual for a a work day -- slim black jacket and matching plain front trousers, a crisp white oxford shirt, a skinny blue-on-blue striped tie, and a gray linen vest -- his long black hair gathered back in a pony tail, his glasses folded on the table atop his phone, silent and dark for the moment. His posture, though, would shock most of his acquaintances, leaning back at ease in his chair in something that would almost qualify, in anyone else, as a slouch. "...And so I have written this piece of daring investigative journalism that could well shake the pharmaceutical industry to its rotten foundations if it only had its moment in the sun -- and no one will print it." He takes a slow sip of his tea. "I'm told I should get used to this sort of thing." Lucien is clearly enough here before or between work as well, impeccably tailored grey suit in simple, understated lines, his green-on-silver floral scroll tie in a neat half-Windsor. He cradles his own mug carefully in both hands, eyes turned past Daiki to fix on the green shoots poking up through the damp mulch. "Get used to it?" There's just a hint of scandal in this murmur. "Why, that hardly sounds daring at all." Daiki's smile comes easily, crooked and sardonic. "Journalism professors either make the industry out to be noble defenders of freedom and truth or a den of iniquity beholden only to profits." One shoulder hitches up in a noncommittal half-shrug. "As far as I can tell most journalists are interested in the safe byline, or a scandalous one within certain bounds. Daring," he declares, leaning forward in his seat as if imparting some confidence, "is for the foolish and the privileged." His smile skews farther. "Count me foolish, I suppose. It's only a matter of how far down the hierarchy of rags I have to go to get it published." "That is quite the binary. Dare I ask where you fall in this battle against the darkness attempting to consume your democracy?" Lucien lifts his cup slowly, his eyes flicking to meet Daiki's over its rim as he sips at his tea. "After all these years at the Club I can assure you there is not so much distance between those groups." He lowers his cup to one knee, leaning back in his seat and tipping his gaze up to the dark bare tree boughs overhead. "Have you a thought as to where you feel it would be suited?" Daiki actually laughs aloud. "I'm sure my former classmates and mentor think I'm a hopeless idealist, and maybe I am, in some ways." His brows furrow thoughtfully. "But I would lie--lie skillfully, happily, with a clean conscience--if it saved lives, helped people. I'm not sure where that fits on the spectrum of journlalistic integrity." He takes a sip of his tea, evidently not all that concerned about this existential quandary. "But I can believe that spectrum exists largely for one kind of journalist or another to balm either conscience or ego. I'm sure I could play it well enough if I did get on staff somewhere, though I'm not so eager for that yet. For now, I just want this story to have an impact." His free hand turns up, resigned. "I'd love for it to go up on CNN, HuffPo, or the Times, but realistically the best I could ever hope for was something on the order of The Atlantic or Vox, and they've turned it down." "I cannot well speak to journalistic ethics, but that standard would serve you well in my vocation. At least, I like to flatter myself that every now and then someone's life is bettered by the fictions we spin." Lucien hikes one eyebrow, casting a quick and dubious flick of glance back to Daiki. "Vox?" The press of his lips is thin and fleeting. "You have far too much style for Vox." One finger traces lazy circles against the side of his mug, his eyes returning to the tree overhead. "Do you know," he offers this softly, up to the branches, but then pulls out his phone to flick through it as he continues, "editors from several of those publications frequent the Club. -- What does your Thursday morning look like?" "The best acting, I'm told -- the best fiction of any kind -- is always truth." Daiki's voice is even, his dark eyes keen and curious. "I may be too stylish for Vox, but I'm not yet too proud for them." He looks up from his tea at his host, eyebrows lifting. "I did not know, and I'm also not surprised. I don't suppose they generally go there to hear pitches from upstart freelancers, even terribly stylish ones, but..." He bows his head just a fraction. "...I can clear Thursday morning." "Usually she comes for a climb and then breakfast. Pitches from young upstarts are not typically included but then --" Lucien turns one hand elegantly upward. "I like to think that encouraging a touch of serendipity in our members' lives is just a part of my duties there. Getting you on her official schedule is a bit beyond my reach but --" he lowers his hand and his eyes both back to his cup, curling his fingers delicately back around it, "-- I have faith you can make the most of a pleasant morning dalliance." "Even with my talent for engineering serendipity, I still don't quite have your magic." Daiki inclines his head forward slightly, respectful. "But your faith is appreciated." His smile returns just a little lopsided. "So is the deck stacked in my favor." He considers Lucien with an intrigued sidelong tilt of his head. "I'm sure your duties there are far more involved than I can guess, but this part of it at least is really just how you move through the world." He lifts his tea, a small yet neat salute. "I'd wager you better more lives than you know."