Logs:Superpowers

Superpowers
Dramatis Personae Clint, Lucien
In Absentia Alma, Fury	2024-03-05 I'm what we call "profoundly dead".
Location <NYC> Belfry - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens
Atop the imposing bell tower, this space is partially open to the air for the sake of acoustics. The wildlife displaced by renovations have been returning by slow, cautious degrees, like the family of ravens that have taken up residence amongst the architectural ornamentation and the bats roosting in the cavernous space overhead. The old cathedral's bells have been restored and reinstalled there, and though--luckily for the bats' eardrums--they are not currently in use, they do add excellent ambience for the select few with both access and cause to come up here. Clearly someone does, for more than just routine cleaning and maintenance. A row of archery targets are bolted to hard points in the floor. Opposite these, a bench has been installed a moderately safe distance from the edge, framed by the columns and the arch. If admiring the view from the comfort of the bench isn't enough, a fixed ladder meant for accessing the bells also provides a way out to the tower's roof and a much more expansive and perilous vista. It's a damp night, grey and misty though the roof keeps most of the wet off, at least. Beyond the belltower the mist has turned the view somewhat ethereal, the river glinting intermittently silvery beneath the gossamer cloud cover. Lucien looks far less fae than his surroundings, bland tonight in well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved grey henley, light canvas jacket over top. His bow case is, at the moment, propped up against a column nearby the bench. He's just setting down a large pizza stone on the low table near the bench -- fresh out of the oven and still hot, topped with goat cheese and fresh mozarella, microgreens, fresh cherry tomatoes, a sprinkling of za'atar. He's shedding his oven mitts, leaving them under the stone like a makeshift trivet before he pours two measures of whisky. Offers one out to his guest. "I do have some cider that would go well with the pizza, but I thought after your exploits it might perhaps be a night for something harder." Clint has made not one but two circuits of the space, his expression blank even if his eyes are keen. He's looking as mundane as ever, a gray softshell jacket over a black tee with a purple chevron on the chest, blue jeans, and light hiking boots. He circles back at last to accept the drink from his host, signing his thanks casually. "This is a nice spot," he allows, after. "Atmospheric, too. If I could find a vantage point like for every mission, I wouldn't need to drink so much. Luckily, I usually have to make do with shitty ones." He twitches a smile as he raises his glass. "Here's to good sightlines." Lucien raises his glass in response, taking a sip as he leans back against a column. 'Have you tried encouraging your targets to be --' he starts to sign, then has to pause a moment for thought. 'more C-O-N-S-I-D-E-R-A-T-E', he's finally continuing, and adding with a look of deep censure: 'Most people give little thought to whoever is spying on them. Don't even try to make it a good show.' Clint laughs, a single huff, and fingerspells "considerate" back at Lucien, followed by two signs that look like THINK-OTHER and GOOD-HELP. "Depends on the context," he adds out loud, then both signs and speaks, "Here, I'd go with 'thinks of others'." He stops voicing so he can sip on his whisky. 'I don't think they would listen. Probably because of the bad sightlines.' He glances thoughtfully over at his own bow case. "Can't really blame the ones I'm shooting at, though. Granted, they do usually give me a better show." He twitches a lopsided smirk. 'Arrows are good encouragement.' THINK-OTHER, Lucien is repeating habitually, nodding to himself as he commits this to memory. "I admit, I've not spent much time on the other end of the arrows." He is following Clint's glance towards the bow case, brief. 'Not that I am keen to try. Especially not on the other side of yours,' and here he's shifting back into speech, his expression solemn. "It's been kept quite out of the news, of course, but after that exploit in Andorra you have no idea how many locals were wondering if superhuman archery is a mutant power." His brow furrows slightly over his next sip of whisky, and after a small consideration he allows: 'For all I know, it might be. After meeting some of my brother's team I would believe anything.' 'Not even the boxing glove arrow?' Clint affects an expression of very mild disappointment that, by his standards, looks downright inconsolable. Another sip of the fine liquor banishes his grief--or maybe it's Lucien's speculation about archery powers, because he's looking thoughtful, instead. "Maybe not specifically archery, but there are all kinds of powers that could make trick shooting easier." He snaps his fingers. "Ryan Black's head of security. I've only ever seen her turn aside other people's projectiles, but I'm sure she doesn't carry those throwing knives for shits and giggles. I bet she could do wonders with a bow." He goes to the bench but does not sit down yet, just gazes out at the mist rolling in from the river. 'My power is just obsession propped up with really good gear. I've been tested for the X-gene. Repeatedly.' 'Would shooting me with a boxing glove arrow spark joy?' Lucien looks -- approximately as serious or unserious as he generally does, but he is setting his whisky down. Just in case. "Oh, I am quite sure she could. -- Obsession is a very underrated superpower. A little bit broken, really, how many things you can become skilled at simply by practicing." A little more offhand, he's adding, 'Were wondering. The rumours were quickly --' He pauses here again and this time it's not to search for a word but to give Clint a quizzical look. 'Why repeatedly, did they think it contagious?' Clint considers this through a leisurely sip of whisky, and finally settles on an uncertain palm-down wobble of one hand. "I think there are contexts where it would." 'Most of those probably involve getting plastered.' His smile at Lucien's reassurance is also small. "I'm never worried about the information management when you're involved." He blinks at the last question. "Contagious?" he--doesn't echo, exactly. 'Fury had me tested when I first started working for him. Becoming an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. required testing in-house. Then a few years ago some of our scientists wanted to try out some advanced technique they'd developed that turned out slower and more expensive than the standard test.' He gives a small, nonchalant shrug. "100% flatscan, every time. But you know those tests aren't perfect." "The things Prometheus has gotten up to, I would not be overly surprised it they did find some way to transfer --" Lucien is stopping here, considering for a moment before deciding wryly: "-- maybe experimenting on unsuspecting janitors would have been a bridge too far for even their level of cartoon villainy, though." His mouth twitches, small, at that last comment. 'I have noticed their flaws.' Clint hums noncommittally. "They were reaching for bridges that weren't even on the map, but Fury didn't have me tested after I came back from Maine." His lips compress, and the movements of his hands is light when he adds, 'not genetically, anyway.' There's a faint sense of trailing off here, but if it needs to be addressed with more than just alcohol, Clint does not oblige. "He's always been just on the verge of requiring contractors to test, too. He's cagier about a lot of things since Lassiter, but not that." There's something careful in his words. "He's cagier about you.' Still lightly, 'I've often wondered--are you a mutant? More importantly, does he know?' There's a very small hitch of Lucien's eyebrows, ticking slightly up at the mention of Fury's new(ish) caginess. 'Fury --' he's started to say, but whatever quip he was about to make about the director's suspicions stalls at that last question. His expression hasn't changed; he regards Clint thoughtfully for a moment before reaching to pick his glass back up. 'This,' he is complaining, mildly (while taking a large pull of whisky, 'is why I should stop drinking, isn't it?' Clint gives a small puff of laughter. "I wouldn't dream of suggesting you cut back for minor risks like falling off the roof or getting arrowed by your shooting buddy. I'm sure you've saved me from some drunken archery related catastrophes down through the years." He looks down into his glass. 'Fury is a complicated man. I don't tell him any more than I have to, but if he had guessed as much as I had...' Here he's uncharacteristically hesitant. 'I was worried.' Now Lucien's expression does grow more pinched, his fingers tightening on his glass. "Complicated," he's echoing aloud, more to himself than to Clint. 'He asked. I told him.' He is looking away toward the mist, but with some deliberate effort shifts back to face Clint again. "He was not best pleased, but he did not..." He hesitates, swirling what little whisky remains in his glass. "-- I do not know what you imagined he would do, actually." Clint shakes his head slowly. 'I was worried he did not ask. If he found out on his own, he might assume...' He waggles his fingers in search of a word, but there's no sense of relenting when he switches to speech instead. "Not malice, but he reads a lot into anything he sees as deception." A rueful smile twitches the corner of his lip. 'My residual hearing drove him insane, back when we first met. He asked for the genetic test up front, but the lengths he went through to be sure I was actually deaf are hilarious. Now.' He drains his glass and sets it down. "I imagined he might have set up a secondary surveillance protocol on you--that's a thing, by the way. Maybe I was being uncharitable." "That man reads nefarious intent into it when I proposition him, I am quite certain he thought me all kinds of duplicitous for not disclosing my status the first time he asked me to dance." Lucien is studying Clint with a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Did he think you were feigning a disability for the cachet?" The amusement has faded as he moves to sit on the bench and, finally, slice the pizza neat and quick with the wheel, setting two slices on their own plates. 'Would you know? If he thought I needed -- extra spying?' Clint's brows furrow with concentration, then gradually relax to a slow-blink. He sits down heavily, picks up the bottle of whisky and tops off Lucien's glass, then refills his own. He does not toss it all back, but visibly struggles not to. 'I guess that explains a few things.' He fortifies himself with another gulp, still not setting the glass back down. "But no, he thought I was faking it so he'd let down his guard. When he admitted that to me years later, I said it was a lucky thing he didn't just start spilling his secrets out loud to himself around me, because I'm a pretty decent lipreader." His mouth twists aside again and he takes another drink. 'I would probably notice, eventually. Then again, I didn't notice you-two were fucking.' 'You could be dead and he probably would not spill his secrets around you. Just in case you were faking it.' Lucien's brows pinch for just a moment. 'Then again, with some of the people we know --' He's sliding one of the plates to Clint before picking up his own glass. "It has mostly been at one of his safehouses." There's a small twitch of smile here, though the amusement does not make it to his eyes. "After two years I did graduate to his fake real house, though. Perhaps it is serious." 'Common spelling error.' Clint accepts the plate with a nod. "He used to think it was mortally offensive. I let him, for a while, as payback for stealing my audiology records." Though he's already cramming pizza into his face he's watching Lucien intently as he speaks. 'I've never been to his real house--' His signs are uncharacteristically clipped here, and there's a suggestion of breaking off that might or might not be incidental to swapping his slice for his glass. 'He asked you, and you told him, and you're still together. That sounds serious to me.' He takes a slow sip, this time, and stares out over the East River. "Not that I have a lot of reference. He hasn't been with anyone since I met him." Another breathy laugh. "That I know about." A faint amusement widens Lucien's eyes. 'Dead West did a delightful video.' He does not reach for his phone, but it is a near thing. He is slicing a small bite of pizza off his slice with a knife and fork, chewing slowly as he watches Clint. 'How long have you known each other?' seems pensive, but it's far more offhand when he adds, "I've had very little experience to gauge by, myself." 'I'm what we call "profoundly dead".' Clint flashes a grin. He's not reaching for his phone either, though his eyes track toward Lucien's, even as he attacks his pizza again. 'About 17 years,' he signs one-handed. "In fairness to his paranoia, I was only moderately dead when we met. And I had just tried to steal from him. It's on him for hiring me about it, though." He picks his whisky back up and studies Lucien over its brim. 'Are you...having a good time? With him?' Lucien's brows lift just slightly. 'Trying to steal for him does not seem like a glowing recommendation,' he allows lightly. 'But it worked out well.' He is studying his pizza at the question, carefully slicing off another bite. 'He is not boring.' "Alright, I did steal from him," Clint hedges, though not very defensively, "he just caught me after. My technique was crude back then, but I guess he saw some promise." He gives a one-sided shrug. "Or maybe he just has a soft spot for archers." He does not look surprised at the answer to his question. 'No, he is not. You want more from him than not boring?' "He does have a knack for seeing possibilities." There's a small twist to Lucien's lips, a small tightness around his eyes, that keeps this from seeming quite like a straightforwardly positive trait. He's taking his time with his pizza, washing down his next slow bites with a generous swallow of whisky. "Mmm," the small upward tip of his hand here is neither affirming or denying, "as I mentioned, I have very little meter for comparison." He's dabbing at his mouth and tucking the napkin under his plate as he rises. 'Come on.' He's finally moving to retrieve his bow from its case. "You get too deep into another whisky and I will feel no sense of accomplishment if I can keep up with your shots." Clint gives a noncommittal hum of his own and crams the rest of the slice into his mouth. 'Sorry to abuse your delicious pizza. I promise I'll slow down.' Then, only after emptying his glass. "Ditto your fine whisky." He wobbles only a little on his way over to his own gear. "Now that you know about my superpower, there's no point handicapping myself to hide it. But I wanted to give you a fighting chance." He ticks a lopsided grin as he unfolds his bow with a showy snap of his wrist. 'I'm just considerate like that.'