Logs:Faces

Faces
Dramatis Personae Emma, Lucien, Mirror	2020-10-08 "Mmm, apologies, what is the non-predatory term for grooming?"
Location <HFC> Concierge's Office - Hfc Ground Floor
The space is small, luxuriously appointed, if rather mild by the standards of the Clubhouse at large. There's little in the way of the chess theme here, just dark wood polished to almost mirror-like finishes, rich leather upholstery, and a splendid view of the garden. Decor is minimal beyond the shelves of beautifully bound antique volumes and a few white marble replicas of classical statuary: Melpomene and Thalia framing the desk from their perches on the shelves behind it, and Ganymede watering Zeus in the form of an eagle on the otherwise unadorned sideboard. The tea on Lucien's desk has gone cold. That, in itself, may tell something of how his morning has gone -- polished though the rest of the current setting might look as he returns to his office. As is his wont in this role he is dressed elegant but not ostentatious -- impeccably tailored grey suit of simple and understated lines, his green-on-silver floral scroll tie knotted in a precise half-Windsor. He's just closed the door behind him, drawn in a breath -- -- that doesn't quite get let back out. His hand doesn't leave the door handle. Just tightens there very fractionally as he carefully polishes the edges of a small smile that had just started to fade, inclines his head just slightly. "Can I help you?" Tony Stark always makes something of a larger-than-life figure -- not any less here in the halls of the Hellfire Club than out in the rest of the world. Currently perched not at the desk but on it in a dark vest and slacks over his dress shirt, no tie, he's plucked the center of a first edition of Les Misérables off the shelves, flipped open to it at random. "I want to say," he's snapping the book closed, tapping it against his palm, "Gavroche. Kinda on the nose for you. But then." He looks up with a lift of brows. Waggles the book in the air. "Who isn't, these days." Lucien's grip on the door relaxes even as his lips compress, sharper. He slips across the room, plucks the book out of the not!Tony's hand. "Please. Tony Stark," he says, mildly, turning to tuck the book back into its place on the shelf and line it very carefully into place with the others, "barely remembers my name, let alone my childhood roles." He turns, leaning back against the shelf with one hand turning up, fingers splaying outward. "Have you ever considered a career on the stage? You wear new idiolects as easily as new clothes." The unTony's hands splay on the desk to either side of himself. His brown eyes meet Lucien's -- and shift, brightening to a brilliant green; the hand that turns back up is a mirror of Luci's own, though now the clothes hang just slightly too loose on his very-slightly-shortened frame. "Who's to say," he replies in a soft francophone-tinged voice, "that I have not. I have worn so very many faces, you know." There's a light tap on the door and the gentlest of mental waves to Lucien to let him know Emma is here. Lucien's eyes narrow sharply, his arms dropping to press palms hard against the corners of the shelf behind him. He pulls in a breath, slow. Lets it out, slow. "{Do you,}" he's asking now, determinedly mild, "{actually need something, or --}" The knock disrupts his aggressively enforced calm -- across the carefully glassy surface of his mind there's a sharp crackle, glittering briefly prickly-jagged as his fingers curl down and his eyes close. << {What} >> is likely not an intentional snap, just one shard breaking through before he opens his eyes again. Polishes the sharp-edged surfaces of his mind back into its previous reflective tranquility. His eyes fall to the cold cup of tea on his desk, head tipping very slightly down. Mirror!Lucien, on the other hand, straightens with a similar careful-adjustment of neurochemical (im)balance. Tucks their just-slightly ill-fitting clothes just-so; slips around to Lucien's side of the desk; seated, the fit of the clothes isn't as easy to note. "{I always need something,}" he/they answer lightly, and, plucking up the teacup, "The door is open." Outside, Emma's eyes widen at the snap, but she says nothing. Instead, she accepts the verbal invitation and opens the door. Most notably, she is carrying a tray laden with lunch, two croque madames and a fresh pot of tea. She is wearing her trade mark white, this time in a simple, well tailored suit with ankle boots. Her eyebrows remain heightened as she walks in the closes the door behind her carefully with her foot. "Ah. Company. If I had known, I would have brought more food." She walks over to the sideboard and rests the tray there. "Am I interrupting something?" Lucien's grip on the shelf eases, his fingers uncurling. Drumming once against the wood as his head tips back. "Are you?" He straightens, eyes skipping from the other-Lucien to the tray of food, back up to the ceiling. "I've rather lost track, at this point. Who is working for who, here? But --" With his own desk occupied, he goes to drop himself into a leather armchair opposite, first two fingers pressing lightly to a temple. "It is hardly company, after all. This is my office." "Should I leave my calling card first, next time?" Mirror hitches a brow upward, a small lilt of amusement colouring their borrowed voice. "I knew you were free. For," they allow with a small incline of head, "your value of such. Merci." If Lucien isn't eating, they certainly are, getting up to claim one of the sandwiches from the sideboard. "And here I thought I worked for the American people. I do what I do in the service of balance and transparency --" He turns a hand upward, fingers spreading just slightly. "Though oddly enough, Leonid Concepcion does not seem to share my goals. He will not speak with me." "Only the American people?" Emma is intrigued. She pours a cup of tea for Lucien and brings it over. "Here. Recharge a moment." She then turns to pour herself a cup. "And who did you talk to him as? Did he reject your guise or your ideas from that guise?" She leans against the side board, using a knife to slice the remaining sandwich in half, and then one half into bite sized pieces. She turns her gaze toward Lucien, considering, before asking, "Do you have a particular use for him in mind, or is all of this just to make sure he's out of other hands?" She takes a sip of her tea. Lucien's eyes cut to Emma with a very quick twitch of lips at that first question. "Mmm." His head inclines in thanks; he curls his hands around the tea, holding it close. One eyebrow lifts. "Do you know who is after him, right now? Would you want to see them succeed?" One thumb taps slowly against the side of the cup. "He is rather press shy. Still. I find it difficult to believe that with all your --" One beat of pause. Lucien's gaze flicks swiftly over his doppelganger. "Many charms, you could not come to some agreement." "Are there any others?" Mirror is wide-eyed. He returns to the desk, once more perching on the top of it to nibble at the sandwich. "I did approach that boy you --" He hesitates, head tilting. "Mmm, apologies, what is the non-predatory term for grooming?" This hangs only for a second in the air before he moves on glibly: "I'm sure Daiki will handle the interview adroitly, anyway. I don't have worries on that front. But we will be uncorking rather a powder keg with all this. How much of a story would you like me to make of it?" "It's just announcing 'the American people' makes you sound so disparagingly patriotic." Emma sips once more before turning to select a bite of the sandwich on the plate. "And no, I wholeheartedly support the decision to reach out to him. I certainly do not want him snatched up by anyone else. I was merely curious if there was a project in mind." Finally, she takes that bite, careful not to drip any of the sauce on herself. At the change in topic, she looks over to Lucien again, exaggerated curiosity on her face while she chews daintily. Something ripples across Lucien's mind and settles back into quiet. "Two hundred twelve thousand deaths is not a powder keg -- it's an explosion already. And one that your government," Lucien's head inclines toward Emma, "seems quite content to fan." His wrist rolls slowly, cup tilting toward Mirror. "That man could end it, you know. We could help him end it. If he could afford to spend a little less time in fear for his own life and a little more time --" He sets the cup back down on the arm of his chair. "See?" There's another shift, smooth; Tony fits neatly back into his clothes once more. "What'd I say. Man of the people. Real American Hero." He takes another bite of the sandwich. licks his fingers clean as he hops off the desk. "Little ironic." His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, forefinger and thumb held up -- just! a smidge! apart. His steps are a little lighter as he heads towards the door. "Explosions. Serving this great nation. Toss in some killer robots -- I'd have this one in the bag all by myself." And with that, he is gone. Emma takes another bite while Lucien and Mirror-Luci-Tony converse, eyes blinking as she sees who the pawn is turning into now. Coolly contemplative, she shakes her head when Not-Tony leaves, peeking over at what remains of Lucien's lunch before taking another bite of her own. When that clears, she picks up her tea. "It sounds like, perhaps, we have some catching up to do." Lucien pulls himself up slowly, unfolding from his chair to return to his desk. He picks up the plate with the half-finished sandwich, returning it to the tray on the sideboard together with his cup. "Mmm?" His brows lift as he turns back to Emma. "What is on your mind?" "I understand Mr. Concepcion as a target, but I know nothing of the other person - Daiki? I thought they were referring to him as the powder keg, but your responses didn't match up." Emma continues to hold her cup between her fingertips, inhaling the aroma. "I would never want to undermine you, especially in front of one of your subordinates, but you also don't have to take on the actual weight of the world alone." She pauses and watches his hands quietly. "Is there anything I can do?" "He is an X-Man," Lucien answers with a small exhale, "but a very competent individual despite that." He leans back against the sideboard, resting one palm back against it. His eyes tip downwards, the twitch of his smile very slight. "Oh, it is not the whole world, remember? Currently, only America." His tone is light, a dusting of amusement layered over it. "Certainly. You can let me know if you need my assistance. My shoulders are quite broad." His gaze slips towards the door, one hand lifting to scuff knuckles lightly against his chin. "And thank you." Only the slightest touch wry. "For the lunch." "Oh, Lucien, you're no fun. Fine. Keep all of that rampant stress to yourself. I will let you know if I need anything." Emma inhales deeply and scoops up the last few bites on her fork and pauses. "Give my best to your family. While it was wonderful to hear that those robots have already proven themselves to be hazards, I do wish they hadn't gone after her brother- in a wheelchair no less." She stuffs the last bites into her mouth and chews with a napkin pressed to her lips. She smiles when she is able, nods, and leaves the room.