Logs:Pride and Glory (Holes)

Pride and Glory (Holes)
Dramatis Personae Cyan, Ion
In Absentia	2024-12-16 "I don't want another Kansas."
Location <NYC> Le Sanctuaire, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens
This café occupies what had been the sanctuary of the old cathedral, and retains some echo of its solemnity without any sense of severity. Two additional levels have been installed in the trefoil footprint, but do not extend all the way to the walls, supported instead by a sturdy steel frame. This gives the impression, as one enters, that the space is fitted with scaffolding and perpetually under renovation--but in a deliberate, beautiful way. The harsh lines of the load-bearing frame are softened by wrought iron fleur-de-lis scrollwork accented in gold. The tables and seating are also of graceful black iron relieved with cushions in red velvet. The long counter is curved along the back wall, and to either side arched doorways lead out into a colonnaded patio in the garden. In one lobe of the trefoil, a square spiral stair ascends to the upper levels, while a platform lift does the same opposite, both balancing utilitarian design with aesthetic sensibility. The most striking addition is the immense stained glass window, masterfully marrying to the neoclassical splendor of the original structure and the Parisian café ambience of the added levels. Its colors are rich yet pellucid, its lines clean and decisive, and its subject decidedly not Christian. The towering figure of Apollo gazes down serene and benevolent, three golden arrows clutched in his right hand and and a golden lyre cradled in his left arm. He's bare to the waist save for a sumptuous red mantle and gold pauldrons, and wears a white skirt overlaid with gold pteruges. He is crowned with a wreath of living green laurel, the great silver bow across his back like the arc of a crescent moon rising across the bright sunburst that halos him. A great serpent encircles the pedestal upon which he stands and lifts its sleek head toward the god in obedience if not adoration, visually recalling the legendary staff he gifted his brother Hermes. It is really not the nicest day to be sitting around outside -- cold, dreary, intermittently drizzly in that very intermittent way where the clouds seem like their heart really isn't even in it. Not the decency to really commit to umbrella weather -- just an unpleasant kind of lingering dampness. That's probably why this beautiful patio is not enjoying too much traffic, though the cafe it is connected to is bustling inside where it's cozy and warm. Ion seems unbothered by the damp and grey -- he's plopped in one of the Very Elegant patio chairs looking wildly inelegant himself. Grungy plain white undershirt under a thick lined flannel, his jeans and boots both very sturdy but very weathered, his leather jacket (not his actual Mongrels battle vest, though it still bears one very small Mongrels patch over the chest, a Jolly Roger emblem with a mutated horned-and-fanged skull and crossed lightning bolts in place of crossbones beneath it) slightly speckled with mudspatter. He's already got himself a cup of coffee (held in the gleaming hook prosthetic that takes the place of one of his hands) and is, at the moment, perched on the arm of his chair, eyes fixed very intently (and very delightedly) on a small grey cat that is hunching under a nearby bush out of the intermittent wetness. "Psst -- psst, gatito," he's saying to the cat, who is ignoring him. This does not dampen his delight; he's crooning toward it in rumbly deep-voiced Spanish: "{Aren't you the cutest who's the best lil baby. You need a room, they got some swank-ass rooms this place. I'll buy you room.}" A pile of what could easily be mistaken for laundry had he stood still stops a few steps away. Dark eyes barely peeking over an array of surgical masks stares at the cat, and since he tends to appear to be looking at whatever is behind that which he’s actually looking at, seems to stare at Ion intently. “I like cats.” Cyan mutters, as his mind wanders away. Should have gotten more than a name, more than a café. Maybe he can still run away, still turn back. It’s not like whoever he’s supposed to be meeting has seen him yet. "Hey-o, friend," Ion is still looking at the cat and not at Cyan, admittedly. But his tone has changed entirely, no longer baby-talking the young cat and now just offering a booming greeting. He hefts his coffee cup in a vague salute, waggling it as if this will help catch the other person's attention. His gravelly voice has a strong Argentine accent, though not so heavy as to be unclear. "You closer, that cat she look hungry to you?" “Cat?” Cyan looks up, only now becoming aware of the man on the patio. Putting his head to the side he looks back at the cat, making sure to look properly this time. “Yes...hungry, cat’s are always hungry aren’t they?” Cyan’s voice is light, sweet almost, even if the layers of cloth covering his mouth muffles the tone. His eyes dart to the coffee mug, following it as if it’s a shiny toy waved in front of a toddler. God what he wouldn’t do for something warm right now, this weather has been getting into his bones. “Are you the one I’m supposed to meet?” "Huh." Ion's head is bobbing -- he looks as though he is considering this statement a very serious Education on the matter of cats. He takes a sip of his coffee and regards the cat again, brows furrowed intently. "Sometimes," he decides, eventually, "they sleeping. This awake-one probably hungry, though." He rolls his head from one side to the other with a quiet but audible pop of joints. "Probably am." His fist thumps his own chest in indication. "Ion. If you my guy I heard some good thing in what you offer." He's also, somewhat more casually, tracked the dart of Cyan's eyes -- just as casually he's offering, "you want coffee? Soup? They got the bomb ass onion soup." “I’m not a charity case.” But fuck do I want soup. Cyan’s eyes are still transfixed on the mug, it’s easier to look at mugs than people. “Ion yeah...” that was the name, Ion and this café. So, he did manage to find the guy after all. He can feel his palms getting sweaty, cold still, despite gloves and hiding them in his pockets the cold managed to seep in there good. “I’ve got...the good stuff. But there are caveats, rules, or this won’t work.” He hesitates, is he supposed to sit down? Is there a code? Rules he's supposed to know? “I don’t want another Kansas.” "Shit, nah, I ain't giving no charity. This a business expense, yeah?" In an exemplary display of Businesslike Professionalism, Ion is idly kicking out a spare chair at the table by way of invitation. "Put onna company card, write this shit off on taxes. I ain't even joke on the soup though they got that damn recipe straight from God. -- damn, I even wanna know what happened in Kansas?" Probably not -- he isn't asking. What he is asking, as he thumps off the arm of the chair and to his feet, is: "Coffee? Some their fancy-ass Frenchy pastry? I'm getting the law laid down I'mm'a need some proper snack anyway. Then you tell me what's the rules." “Business expense...” Cyan considers it, sitting down just a bit too fast to hide that he’s already made up his mind. “Well, if it’s a business expense then soup is...acceptable..?” he looks at the man, properly this time, trying to get a read only to realize he’s got no baseline for what he’s looking for. Besides, his brain is too filled with the thoughts of soup right now for there to be room for much more. And this guy is making it very easy to just go with the flow. "Hell yeah. Gimme two sec then we gonna feast." Ion is slamming back the rest of his coffee like it's a shot -- the pronged hook where his right hand should be glimmers even brighter than the gloomy day should warrant, a very brief shiver of electric sparkle running down its length and vanishing harmlessly into the air. He chucks the cup into a trashcan, dipping inside for -- more than two secs, admittedly. Not too long; a couple minutes that Cyan is left outdoors with the cats and the milquetoast drizzle, and then he's returning, balancing two very large takeaway soup cartons and two cups with heat sleeves and travel mugs in a way that looks incredibly precarious. Probably he should have gotten a tray, or a caddy, but -- hindsight. He at least has not spilled any by the time he makes it to the table to set down this bounty. He pulls a couple napkin-wrapped spoons from a pocket, setting one on top of Cyan's soup container and then dropping himself heavily back into the chair. "I tell them bout the cat. Maybe they find her a food too, huh?" His chin lifts to Cyan like he's saying hi for the first time. "What's your rule, then. We take your privacy real damn serious, if that a worry." Despite the desire to simply inhale the soup in one go, Cyan moves slowly. Being very careful about lowering his facemasks, and making sure he’s facing away from Ion as he sips it. The spoon is left on the table untouched. “It’s not so much privacy, well, I should maybe add that to the rules somehow, but like, it won’t do me much good.” He takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of the warmth of the soup spreading through his body before he continues. “First of all, you fuck me over you fuck yourself. This isn’t a threat or a warning or anything, it’s just a statement of fact. Second...” the rest of the soup goes down in one big gulp, devoured in less than ten seconds. “I decide on dosage, length of exposure, who gets it and who doesn't. And if I decide to cut someone off, that’s non-negotiable. Kansas proved no one else can be trusted with these decisions.” “And last, I get paid up front. I’ll give you a sample if you want to check that this shit’s legit, but that’s it. I have the monopoly on this stuff, if I feel I’m getting screwed I am gone before you can say Wisconsin.” He pauses for a moment, his gaze for a moment unfocused as if he’s looking at something far away. “And no rooftops, not unless gravity stops working or something. Rooftops are bad for business.” "I only fuck people over they fuck with us first," Ion is answering, oddly cheerfully. He is diving hungrily into his soup, large rapid mouthfuls. He does at least have the nominal manners to put his good hand over his mouth before speaking, but not enough to swallow first. "I don't spend not much time in Kansas or Wisconsin, I think we be good. What you mean on the not much good? We be careful as hell." "Well..." Cyan drags it out, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "I kind of have to be around, for it to work. Otherwise it loses its potency in like five minutes or so." He looks around, trying to figure out where the cat went, before remembering to hook the masks back up. A little wistfully he looks back into the takeaway container that had just moments before contained heaven on earth. Then hurriedly he adds, "Nothing like mental shenanigans, I promise, I couldn't read a mind if it was an open book, it's just err...you know..." he looks around, the old feeling of being watched making the hairs in his neck stand up. It's ok, you're not there anymore. "...stuff..." "Around?" Ion takes the space of another spoonful of soup and another large swig of his coffee to consider this, brow knitting. "But you not no teep. How around around? Some our clients they also like they space you gotta how up close an personal we talking?" "Like...breathing on them around?" a grimace manifests on Cyan's face as they squirm in their seat. "Physical contact, spit, sweat, and so on, haven't tried having anyone drink my blood yet, but I'm fairly sure I'm not on any tapper's diet plan. It'll last for a while once I've been in contact with someone, so it don't need to like hang around and watch them talk to the fairies, but there has to be physical contact on some level, depending on how off their rockers people wanna get." "Damn." Ion is bobbing one leg restlessly where it sits on the flagstones. He's tapping his spoon, restless, too, against the side of his (half-finished) carton of soup, tiny jittery sparks skittering from his fingers with the small fidgety motion. "Like some next-level love is a drug going on, huh?" He sucks his tongue against his teeth, wiping away a stray fleck of onion that has lodged there. After a moment, he's grinning, bright: "Still could get you your privacy though, shit, the gays they figure that one out age ago. Work you up some junkie glory hole you be golden." "I can even double as a diet aid..." Cyan sighs, Ion's many small acts of fidgeting are like tiny attention grabbing explosions that he just can't stop himself from staring at, and it's making him feel jittery. "So you in or out? Cause I got other people I can look up." He holds up a crumpled piece of paper, there's only Ion's name on it but Cyan reckons as long as Ion doesn't know that it doesn't matter. "I just went to you first cause my contact says you've got more sense than the rest." Ion is considering the paper with a small press of his lips. He lifts his carton to down the rest of his soup in a long gulp, and evidently by the time he's finished drinking he's through considering the offer. Cyan's bluff seems to have worked, because he's nodding easily, smiling a little brighter. "Hell yeah, you come down our neighborhood, next Clinic we run, you and my dogs I think we could make us some good cash. You know your way around here? Guess Google will help even you don't." He is perhaps trusting Cyan's Google Prowess, because after this he's telling the other mutant a time and an address, somewhere off in Lower Manhattan. "-- you swing by there, we can work out some proper kind schedule, yeah?" "Cool, cool, cool, yeah sure," despite his attempts to play it cool, and the masks covering most of his face, Cyan's body language betrays his relief. This time will be different. This time will not be Kansas.