Logs:More than Most

More than Most
Dramatis Personae David, Hive
In Absentia Emma, Lucien, Mirror	2024-03-14 "Or -- you don't reckon they'd take on an exchange student?"
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 artwork from all around the world, paintings and sculptures and pottery and masks. The lounge is fairly quiet this evening. One of the white knights is at the table, tired and bruised and nursing the latest of many drinks. In one of the side booths, Hive has been slouched opposite Harry Leland engaged in -- maybe it's an argument, it's hard to tell, Hive looks kind of perpetually cranky. Possibly something has gone wrong with A Scheme or possibly they are just discussing the weather. Either way, the Black Bishop is leaving now, leaving behind Hive rubbing at one scarred side of his head and turning his perpetual glower down at his phone instead. He is not really dressed like he belongs in this place, jeans and a black corduroy work shirt whose half-rolled sleeves unflatteringly serve to make him look even more gaunt. He's reaching for his cup -- no booze, just coffee -- but scowling further when he takes a sip and finds it long gone cold. "Can I buy you another?" The man who has approached Hive does look like he belongs here, neatly groomed and smartly tailored in a dark grey suit with an unobtrusively patterned green-and-bronze tie, indicating Hive's cold coffee with a nod. David is of average height, average build, his hair dusting silver at the temples a better indication of his age than his mostly unlined face. You know what they say -- brown don't frown? Asian don't raisin? -- well, whatever he is he's aging gracefully. Without waiting for an invitation, he is sliding into the booth opposite Hive, beckoning a server over with a crook of his finger and a glance (he is getting coffee, though << bet they still don't know my order, two years in this city... taking his sweet time, too. >>) As he waits, though, David turns his attention more fully to Hive. His mind is moving a few steps ahead of his mouth, carefully choosing his words, but it doesn't show in his almost overly familiar tone. "Last thing I want is to sound ungrateful," he starts, "I've been here a couple years now, and I admire the way you folks run your ship. But I've been thinking since last summer, how much are we really utilizing things like public perception, popular opinion? There's a massive market of influence in the media. If you wanted to break into that, I think I could be your man. I figured you were the one to ask." Hive scrunches an eye shut as he tips his scowl away from his mug and toward David. There is a small softening of his glower at the offer of Fresh Coffee. His hand is falling from his temple and maybe he was going to gesture to the other seat in indication, but with David already sitting down he truncates the gesture and simply slouches further back in the booth. "Do you," is his first question, a little wry at David's profession of admiration. "You asked to move out here, didn't you? Hate to think what San Francisco's Court is like if Shaw was trading up." He's studying David from sleepily half-lidded eyes (though he might be half David's age, he's aging far less gracefully, eyes baggy and already heavily accented with crows' feet) before wondering, "-- what's your media experience?" David's mental assessment of San Francisco's Court, << infighting, self-obsessed idiots, >> is rather less charitable than the dismissive toss of his head -- "Ah, I'm over the West Coast," he says lightly, stretching one arm out along the back of the bench beside him. "They've been clinging to the tech boom a little too long out there, it's time to move on! And I've always preferred the weather up here. Good to see snow in the winter again." He is taken mildly aback by this probe into his experience, though he is immediately sheepish that he didn't expect it. "I've worked on political campaigns," he offers, then lifts his palm appeasingly -- "Not the same thing, obviously, but... spinning a narrative. Telling the people what they want to think. Other than that... does social media count? I was in the tech start-up world for a while. Ah --" << finally >> the server is arriving. "Double shot vanilla latte," he says, then gestures for Hive to order too, though he is considering idly that his companion looks like he would benefit more from sleep than caffeine. "The usual -- thanks." Hive manages to sound reasonably polite to the waiter before turning his attention back to David. "That shit is definitely valuable as hell," he's acknowledging -- probably not reluctantly but his gruff tone makes it sound like a dire admission all the same. "If that's the world you want to be in, the White Court can give you a way better leg up. Shaw dabbles but I gotta be honest with you, if I really want to move mountains in the court of public opinion I'm calling in a favor across the board." << He has a usual, >> David is observing with surprisingly fervent envy, but at once he consoles himself, << How long has he been here, anyway, half my age... >> His eyes follow the waiter away before he redirects his attention. "White Court, huh?" This did not actually come as a great surprise to him; he is congratulating himself internally on sounding unflustered but not too unflustered. "Who do I talk to over there? Or -- you don't reckon they'd take on an exchange student?" "Like a decade," Hive answers the unspoken question, "too damn long." There's a momentary amusement that crosses his face at the question of who to talk to, and he appears to give this an earnest consideration before answering. "It's Frost's Court, obviously," comes after a pensive delay, "but administrative changes are all gonna go through her Bishop. Have you met the man? Guess you could roll the dice with their Rook but that fucker's a wild card." There's a << huh? -- ah >> when Hive answers, but it doesn't rise to the level of alarm -- still, the wheels churning now are muted and shadowed, not like David is being deliberately circumspect with his thoughts, but like he is no longer so focussed on where he's going and how to get there. Probably (in fact, almost certainly) he expected -- to be pointed at the White Court's Bishop (the mere thought of the title is bitter in the back of his mind, where his throat meets his brain stem -- Lucien Tessier is twenty-some years younger than David, too.) None of this bitterness makes it into his voice. "I haven't met either of them properly yet," he says. "My wife and I saw Mr. Tessier in the Captain America musical last year, though. Impressive stuff! But I'm sure he is very busy, so other than that, I have yet to have an audience with him, hah." The wheels are still turning; he decides apparently precipitously that he feels lucky, that he is going to chance the wild card. "I'd like to meet the Rook, too. Hedge my bets, huh?" "Mnnh," is Hive's reply to the mention of the musical, "yeah. Guess he's pretty skilled on stage, too." Something has relaxed in his expression as David's thoughts quiet, his glower a bit less pronounced. "Both of them are good people to know if you want to make media your game, but..." The but doesn't lead anywhere, yet; Hive is trailing off with an idle worry of teeth at the corner of a thumbnail. "You seem like you pretty much know the score around here, you know? Done solid with with --" The vague hesitation before he says, "that tech shit" doesn't have any particular air of disdain, but probably the fact he said 'that tech shit' inherently suggests his opinion of the San Francisco scene. "-- but the Court here is looking for more than most." Even so, he's pulling out his phone to make himself a note. "I can probably get you a meeting with their Rook. For all you know, you might already have met them." David is even envious of Lucien's prowess onstage, though only in a muddled, half-conscious way, swelling distractedly in the void filled by Hive's silence. If anything he is heartened by Hive's less-than-glowing assessment of San Francisco, like he's just had a long-standing grudge confirmed. "Good," he says; this time he can't keep his voice entirely neutral -- it is tinged with hungry ambition when he says, "I'm looking for more than most, too." His eyes dart to Hive's phone as it emerges, then sharply back up to Hive. << The hell does that mean? >> is thick with both frustration and intense curiosity, but David smiles through it. "I'd love that, thanks," he says, though the thanks is devoid of sentiment; internally, he has already moved on to self-congratulation. He taps one finger against the side of his nose as their coffee arrives -- "I'll be in touch." Then, taking his cup, he slides out of the booth -- "Great talking to you!"