Logs:Mycelium

Mycelium
Dramatis Personae Cyan, Lucien, Flèche
In Absentia	2024-12-27 "I dunno how to tell you this. But you look real swank."
Location <NYC> Le Carrefour, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens
Above the bustle of the clerestory restaurant, tucked at the base of the bell tower, this indoor garden and library is out of the way and easily overlooked, sure to become a favored "hidden gem" of travel guides. Low bookshelves full of mythology, fairy tales, and folklore ring the central elevator shaft and the stairway spiraling around it like an easily navigable labyrinth. Beyond these are plants in a variety of tastefully whimsical containers, each with its own engraved plaque giving the common name, the scientific name, and their significance to various traditional stories and practices. The walls have been done away with so that the room extends beyond the doric columns into a surreal rooftop garden enclosed with glass stretching between the tower's massive buttresses. The arrangement of plantlife becomes less formal as one moves out into the four arms of the conservatory, visible containers giving way to beds and terraces and eventually landscapes carefully cultivated to look wild. There is plentiful seating scattered along the paths and just off of them, from proper benches to picturesque logs to surprisingly comfortable boulders. By day, myriad butterflies dance amongst the enchanted vegetation, and likewise moths by night. A shallow stream weaves throughout, feeding ponds that host plants of their own alongside fish, frogs, and turtles. Wandering the outer edges of the conservatory, one could almost feel lost in a mystical forest but for the stunning views of the cityscape beyond the glass. Late at night finds the conservatory quiet. Very quiet -- it would be easy to think, lost in the deliberately twisty pathways that make the indoor garden feel larger to wander through than it really is -- that it was entirely deserted. Tucked off well in the depths of the garden, sitting cross-legged on the ground near to a young rowan tree, Lucien is certainly not calling much of any attention to himself. He's dressed far more casually than his usual daytime attire -- plain pale green linen wrap pants, a very soft heather-grey tee. There's a small stone bowl of water in front of him, and an as-yet-unlit candle. He's paying neither of these things much mind, instead just slowly sipping at a mug of tea as he writes something in slow and elegant calligraphy with a marbled silvery-green fountain pen in a small notebook. Beside him, half-hidden underneath the shrubby rowan branches, a sleek black and tan shepherd mutt is kind of half-dozing, half-eying some of the moths as the nighttime pollinators flit about the garden. Likewise, Cyan is not drawing a lot of attention to himself as he slinks his way through the conservatory. His footsteps being far more silent than what should be possible in heavy combat boots, hood up and head down, his hands tucked into his pockets as he occasionally hunches down, studies something with keen interest then moves on. There’s no flashy scarf or brightly coloured gloves this night, just his plain old fully black attire. He doesn’t notice Lucien, nor the dog, as he steadily chants “mushroom mushroom mushroom” to himself, carefully picking up a rock to check beneath it. There’s a sudden jerk to his movements as he becomes aware of Lucien, followed by a quick glance to check for escape routes, before deciding that running away would probably be Very Awkward. “Erhm, hi.” he offers, putting the rock very gently back into its place. “I didn’t see you.” Lucien, on the other hand, certainly noticed Cyan. He's looked up somewhere in the stream of mushrooms, uncannily green eyes fixing silent on his new visitor. Flèche lifts her head, too, one ear pricked up and the other falling lopsided as she cocks her head, gets to her feet, shakes herself sleepily. Her tail is wagging slowly through a languid stretch. "{-- oh big stretch,}" is the first thing Lucien murmurs -- this is not to Cyan but in French with a casual glance to the dog. He's looking back to Cyan after this, his head inclining. "Are you seeking mushrooms?" His mouth twitches, brief. "They do occasionally crop up, here, though if you see them in a circle I would steer clear." As Flèche moves Cyan noticeably freezes, his gaze fixated on the dog every part of his body language signaling he’s about to run. “That’s a dog.” he mumbles, mostly to himself, as he tries not to be weird about it. Lucien’s words only partially register, “mushrooms yes...no, I mean-” his brain is buzzing with panic, trying navigate both how to appropriately answer Lucien and the fact that there’s a dog. “I wasn’t gonna steal anything. I just saw some strange ones and wanted to see if there was more.” Lucien's head turns only slightly, his eyes flicking between Cyan and the dog. His lips press just a little thinner, and he gestures, silent, to Flèche; though she gives him an incredibly mournful look at the command, she is dutifully lying back down, head on her paws. Her tail still wags. "Did I imply you were going to steal anything?" There's just the faintest hint of puzzlement in Lucien's tone, his brows pinching slightly as though thinking back over the entire ten seconds of conversation they have had so far is an intent undertaking. "There are quite a lot of strange plants in here. I find it quite enjoyable to take a look around, every so often, and see what new oddities have cropped up. Where were the strange ones?" Cyan’s gaze does not leave Flèche, but he noticeably seems less ready to run as she lies down, breathing very carefully as he shakes away the lump in his chest. “‘s just,” he shrugs, looking at Lucien while still keeping one eye on the dog. “I dunno how to tell you this. But you look real swank and swank people tend to assume I’m up to no good. Also my mom warned me they are really easy to get off the hook for murder.” the last part is quiet, not meant to be loud enough for Lucien to hear. Then he perks up. “Oh they were over there!” For a moment everything but how awesome mushrooms are is forgotten and he points at the far end of the conservatory. “I think they’re the type certain ants cultivate, -- super tasty, extremely hard to cultivate -- “ his altogether too black eyes twinkle with excitement. “-on account of them needing ants!” "Mmm. I have cultivated a certain swankness, haven't I." Lucien says this extremely gravely, as if he is acknowledging that Cyan just informed him he has been stricken with a case of cancer rather than a case of poshness. "It is helpful in staying in business. A lot of people are looking for a level of elegance in their escape. I do not," he adds, mildly, "make a habit of murdering my hotel guests. Is there some reason you imagine I ought to be murdering you?" There's something oddly forthright in his tone, like he is genuinely curious as to Cyan's answer, here. It is, though, quite derailed by the matter of the mushrooms. His expression does not grow animated, exactly; he's still sitting with the same quiet pose, but there is a faint widening of his eyes, a small hitch of his breath, something indefinably warmer about his voice. "We've got quite a thriving ecosystem here, though many people mislike to think about the bugs. So many of them are very necessary, to help the rest of the garden thrive. Would you," he has dropped his gaze to his notebook, where he is neatly tearing out the page he'd been writing on and folding it in half, "mind showing me the mushrooms? Sometimes they spring up and vanish again before I've even had a chance to notice." “I dunno, sometimes rich people do things just cause they can.” Cyan shrugs, “and you’ve kind of got my life in your hands, “ he gestures at the hotel in general. Similarly to Lucien, there’s a change in Cyan as the topic of bugs and mushrooms presents itself. He’s up on his toes, his fingers rapidly tapping at the air, an excited glow in his eyes. “Yes, of course!” he starts moving, making sure to wait just enough that Lucien can follow at his own pace. “The really weird thing about these is that they’re indoors, I’ve never heard of anyone managing to purposefully get these ants to grow their gardens indoors.” His steps are light, heavy combat boots seeming to be a way to anchor him to the ground and keeping him from flying. “Also, I don’t think they’re native to this area, if you’ve got imported eucalyptus trees they might have hitched a ride with them.” Reaching one of the more isolated areas of the conservatory he stops, pointing at what seems like an inconspicuous mound of dirt next to a tree, a white network of mycelium in the beginning phases of making it up the trunk. “Here, they’ve just started out, “ there’s definite pride in his voice, “I was looking to see if there were older nests around.” "Mmm. I suppose they do." There's no particular weight in this, bland and matter-of-fact, as is: "Though it does seem quite awfully foolish to stay here if you genuinely fear I might murder you purely on a whim." Lucien is taking his time about standing -- the dog starts to stand, too, when he does, and he glances again brief at Cyan before settling her back down with another hand gesture. This time she huffs, deep and weary, as she lies. Lucien sets his notebook and its torn-out page down in front of her before getting up to trail after Cyan, bare feet quiet on the pathway stones. He drops to a crouch beside the tree, a faint warm crinkle at his eyes as he examines the growing fungi. "We've no eucalyptus, it doesn't play so well with others." There's a quiet fascination in his voice here. "Though we've certainly other imports in plenty, and a few with the last batch of winter planting -- I don't believe I've seen a nest of this before, what an excellent find. The garden," he offers as though it is in fact its own entity, "must like you. New secrets tend to crop up when it's pleased." “If I’m gonna get murdered I might as well get it while having access to a warm bed and a hot shower.” Cyan’s tone is matter-of-factly, as if this is something he’s put a lot of thought into before coming to his conclusion. “The foolish thing to do is to be purposely cold and hungry just because someone might murder you. There’s always someone that might murder you.” “You’ve got a very neat garden.” His eyes find a trail of ants running up the tree’s trunk, carrying little pieces of leaves on their descent to their nest. “They’re leaf cutters, they cut leaves and use them as compost in their nest, which helps the fungi grow,” he sighs a little, “but this isn’t their usual habitat, they’ll end up killing this tree.” "Mmm. There are other warm beds. Most of them attached to non-murderers. In all the years I was homeless," this, too, is delivered quietly matter-of-fact, "a discerning judgment went infinitely farther in keeping us safe than any level of cynicism. There are terrible people out there, for sure." There's a certain tightness, now, in his eyes, in the fingertips that are quite unconsciously digging just a little harder against the smooth flat rock where he's rested his hand, that suggests this is not spoken in the abstract. "But there are far more wonderful ones." He is still looking quite intently at the fungus, and the ants, and not at Cyan. "Thank you," he adds. "For bringing this to my attention. The delight and the danger. I suppose they often come hand in hand." There’s a slight twitch in one of Cyan’s eyes as Lucien mentions having been homeless. And before he opens his mouth again he looks at Lucien, carefully, a reassessment of everything he knows about him. “I can’t read minds, I don’t know how to tell the terrible people apart from the wonderful ones until they’ve done whatever they intend to do.” He sighs, “I’m not-” he stops, even with the face masks turning away from Lucien and covering his mouth with his arm as he coughs. “I’m not very good at people, discerning judgement-” he matches Lucien’s tone almost to a tee, “doesn’t help a lot when people tend to lose their judgement around you.” As if to demonstrate Cyan takes off one of his gloves and gently puts a finger in the ant's path, letting them crawl over it. It only takes a few seconds before the ants who’ve come in contact with him start acting erratic, some stopping completely, some fighting, some spinning around in circles, and some simply falling off the trunk dead. "That is the problem, isn't it. It takes a certain practice sifting the malicious from the not, and unfortunately a lot of that experience is --" There's a very small twitch at the corner of Lucien's mouth. "Hard-won. There are tricks, here and there. Not foolproof, but sometimes they help. One of my most helpful initial red flag checks --" But he does not get as far as elaborating on this particular trick -- he's now leaning forward, scrutinizing the ants very carefully. And then Cyan's finger. And then the ants. "Goodness, what has happened to them?" “Same thing that happens to anyone who touches me.” Cyan pulls his hand back, suddenly self-conscious over Lucien being this close. “I produce a rapid-functioning psychoactive agent. Kind of like psilocybin, but far more potent.” He looks a little regretfully at the ants, the ones untouched continuing with the work, and the others still in a state of complete chaos. “I don’t really control it, so if I accidentally bump into someone, then...yeah, sorry about the Lounge.” "My lounge has recovered well enough. I had thought perhaps all the masks were perhaps just to stave off bigots -- I know people can be considerably less than friendly when you are visibly -- different. I am sorry, that does sound a dreadful inconvenience." Lucien isn't pulling away, though he does tilt a more cautious scrutiny up toward Cyan. "Is it only touch? Psychedelics do not," he seems to be picking his words cautiously, "have much impact on me, historically, but it might be good to know if there are -- other precautions that might make your stay more comfortable. For the other guests and for you, I cannot imagine it is particularly relaxing to be on guard for that constantly." “Touch, bodily fluids, droplets...” Cyan trails off, his head tilted down, only looking at Lucien through the corner of his eye, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing his left forearm. “Basically I’m like a virus, the decay time is real fast outside my body though, so it’s not going into the water, and I make sure to be out at least thirty minutes before the cleaners get to my room.” “Smaller bodies tend to have more adverse reactions, so I try to stay away from kids and animals. What do you mean psychedelics don’t have an impact on you?” His eyes whip up, this time openly staring at Lucien. "That is conscientious of you. I will see about upping our air filtration." Lucien is, somewhat reflexively, looking back in the direction where he left his dog, but if Flèche has moved from the spot she was told to stay in there is no sign. "Mmm? Different people metabolize drugs differently. I do not know if it is physiological or some quirk of neurodivergence, the way caffeine puts some of my friends with ADHD straight to sleep, but --" His hand turns up. "They do make me a bit exhausted, at times," he will allow, "but blessedly free of hallucinations. Brains are complicated creatures, I suppose." “Huh...” There's a buzz of emotions running through Cyan’s mind, but primarily curiosity. Very carefully he puts his glove back on, resisting the urge to test Lucien’s words. “You must have a very special brain. I haven’t met anyone who it doesn’t have an effect on before, although people in this city keep telling me they exist.” "Terribly wired. My sleep schedule is a nightmare and the seizures are exhausting. Some benefits, though, I suppose. If -- niche." Lucien pushes himself up to his feet. "New York is quite a big city. You certainly will find all types here, if you choose to make it your home." “Seizures?” Again Cyan fights down the intense desire to test what would happen, adding somberly “I’m sorry about that,” while still rapidly moving his weight from one foot to another. “I’ll try to make this city a home. People here are...a lot kinder than what their reputation would have them be.” "This city --" Lucien hesitates, dusting his hands lightly off against each other. "Can be very hard. Hard times do make hard people, but they can make kind ones, too. Sometimes the same people, even." His head inclines, small, to Cyan. "I need to get back to my dog before she wastes away from the grief of her terrible and eternal abandonment. I am glad you found us, though. And please do let me know if the garden unearths any more surprises for you. It is always such a pleasure to --" His hand turns elegantly upward, fingers slightly splayed, "see a side of it I had not noticed before."