[Lucien Anders] It's the raven again: The avian spirit manifests itself within the Lafette once more, finding a perch wherever Molly was found last night and cawing with the kind of glorious grandeur that corvids are capable of. Fully believing their craws are, of course, the pinnacle of avian vocalizations. And uncaring of just how close to Molly's ear it may have landed... because, really, they are dicks that way, let's be honest. Perhaps the lack of care for her eardrums is mitigated by the rich fragrance of fresh bloomed sanguine irises in its beak, dropped on Molly's lap, the stems held together with a scroll of parchment paper. The message is simple, the untidy scrawl familiar if hard to read:
Mary Maud,
6pm, Wrigley Field, west entrance.
Hope you like wieners and beer.
-Lucien
And he's there, of course, at the appointed time. Highly visible: To her. There's that sense about Lucien, so masterfully worked that it sometimes escapes peoples notice. Because the man only ever seems to get noticed by whoever he wants to notice him, irregardless of his ill-favoured looks, his penchant for eccentric or just plain ugly garb. The fact that he carries a bloody onyx gentlmens cane topped off with that alabaster figurine that looks like lumps from far away and more like a neolithic fertility idol up close. Today's garb is relatively tame for him: Slacks the colour of figs in shadows, a blazer that seems to be made from a quilt and a t-shirt that pays homage to The Clash.
He's by a hot dog stand, of course, though his hands are free except for the ever-present Pall Mall, lit up and smoking, the cool, damp breeze lifting tufts of lank, thinning hair.
[Molly Quincannon] Molly was found asleep at her workbench, in point of fact, and said avian spirit would have only found a place to perch quite close indeed to Molly's ear. When Atlas is getting some still-much-needed sleep or alone-time, Molly tends to vent some of that 'gotta do something; gotta help or at least do something' feeling (always so Frantic, even if only in the confines of her own brain), so she's been spending a lot of time working on her gadgetry. Occasionally to the detriment of sleeping in a proper bed. Thus the caw to get her attention (and induce a bout of temporary tinnitus) at least served as a reasonable 'wake-up-time-for-bed' alarm call. Not to mention something to get a smile.
Molly ... is not empty-handed when she comes (in battered purple jeans and a 'Where The Wild Things Are' T-shirt. And a New York Yankees baseball cap, and never mind that she may get lynched; her first real experience of live baseball was at Yankee Stadium, though she also has a Mariner's cap from her 'I am a tomboy and if you don't like it, you can bore it and stroke it and cram it as far as it'll go' phase in high school). She carries two boxes. One is unwrapped, and looks like Tupperware. One is small, and is wrapped in paper printed with festive Christmas zombies. There is an iris tucked behind her ear (the rest are in a coffee mug on her desk, and yes, she emptied out the coffee and put water in first).
She grins and waves at him, and her first comment is, "I'll spare you the rousing chorus of 'Take Me Out To The Ballgame'. I respect people's eardrums, unlike your fine feathered friend." Good-natured, of course. Teasing. Then she hands over the boxes. "A very merry un-birthday to you."
[Lucien Anders] Eyeing the cap he grimaces, "Seriously? The Yankees?" A shake of his head and without query or hesitation, reaches up and plucks the cap off her head [unless, of course, she should protest vociferously] and replaces it with one snagged from an interior pocket of the quilted blazer [he always seems to have any number of places to squirrel things away on his person]: Rumpled and care worn with the Red Sox stylized red 'B' on navy blue. The rim of the bill is worn down enough that the interior board shows at one side, but, ah, the curvature of the bill is perfection. "There. We'll pretend that never happened, Mary Maud."
The curve of his lips is, of course, supposed to be a cantankerous smirk. His watery blue eyes are just soft enough to diminish the effect, though they sharpen when they dip over the rest of her [yes, he looks. he doesn't oggle or leer - not now at least - but sure as hell he looks], settle on the two objects she holds, a flex of curiosity.... she speaks of respecting peoples eardrums and one feathered friend who doesn't and his chapped lips crack into a lopsided grin, revealing the unfortunately crooked, stained teeth. "Yeah, Nevermore's --" he lifts his hands, defensive "His idea, not mine, dammit. Vain as a fuckin' peacock. Found out about Poe n' felt entitled -- anyway, Nevermore's a dick." A beat and a snort, "Guess that's why we get along."
Then the packages are offered and one unkempt eyebrow raises, curious and wary in his ever constant goal to remain seen as a grumpy troll of a man. He flicks the cherry off the Pall Mall and tosses the butt into a rubbish bin [for a self-proclaimed dick he's careful not to litter - go figure] and takes the offerings. The tupperware is opened on one side and he makes a big production of sniffing and an initial "Ahhh," of appreciation turns into a "Huh" of deliberate ennui when he catches himself. Such attempts are unsuccessful when it comes to the revealing the contents within the merry zombies: Squinting slightly to make out the words there's then a sharp, distinctive bark of laughter that ends in a wheeze. "Ah, doll -- got me all figured out, huh?" The gruff words are fond, though, no doubt about that.
"Well, with grub like that at hand no need t'subject us t'the sucktastic wieners. C'mon, lemme brown bag a beer." Turning towards the hot dog stand and then looking back her way. "Y'gonna have one or the blood in yer caffeine stream too high again?"
[Molly Quincannon] Molly's too curious about what he's going to do to actively protest the cap being plucked off her head; she just watches to see what he's going to do next. (She trusts this fugly man whom fortune favours; that much is clear.) The Red Sox cap ending up on her head gets giggles, though through them, she does say, "Sorry to sully your hands and eyes with it, then. Still ...we all have our souvenirs." Though there's no real ire in the comment, no rancour or desperation; souvenir or not, she remembers that game like it was yesterday, with Zoot explaining the odds and Floyd passing out the beer and Teeth yelling at the umpire in the sort of language that would make sailors blush. Not all of that is conveyed through her vocal tone, of course, but some of that day is carried in her voice, in her eyes.
All of the rest - about Nevermore and how she's got Lucien figured - just gets giggles. "Nevermore's awesome. Loud and brash and very much himself. I've gotta respect that. As to you? Eh, give yourself credit for more depth. I in no way have you all figured out. I made a few educated guesses, is all. Happens they were good ones. And I'm glad." Open, honest and completely unselfconscious. "I wanted to say thanks ... and not just for the actually-saving-people's-hides thing either. Sometimes tangible's good for that." So too, though she doesn't say it in words, is the thinking about what another would appreciate. That's the true gift - for her, it always has been; trying to understand someone.
Blood in her caffeine stream? That joke always gets a laugh no matter how many times she hears it (and she has heard it a lot). When she can actually speak past the laughter, she digs in a pocket and holds out a tin of something that proclaims itself to be 'Buzz Bites' - chocolate chews with 100mg of caffeine apiece. "I figured out a convenient way to have both. So yes, please."
[Lucien Anders] "Souvenirs?" The man has an expressive face for all that it is not a pleasure to look upon: He can carry off the overdone feigning of confusion very well, marred only by the slight twinkle-snap in those watery, buggy eyes. [less red-rimmed and blood shot this evening, though. the man still always seems tired but today he seems less utterly harangued.] "Sure, sure, keep it for one." He did, after all, say they would pretend it never happened. For all of it though there is, indeed, a deeper layer of understanding.
Before answering on other matters he glances at the tin of Buzz Bites and laughs faintly, more wheezing than breathy, "Shit, honey, ya got a nice ticker under that good-'nough-fer-a-mouthful-s'good-'nough-fer-me rack," he really has no shame, it's true, "How 'bout ya not make it explode?"
Says he as he lights up another cigarette after slipping the cufflinks box into another interior pocket and holding the tupperwear under an arm... lighting up and darting her a glance that is all unapologetic laughter. He knows damned well he's the last one who should be critiquing another persons addictions. And yes, he goes ahead and does it anyway. At least it comes from a place of Lucien-style caring though.
It's only after he's purchased their brown-bagged beer - two bottles of Amber Bock - and they are moving away from the stand that he speaks on, responding to gratitude for things beyond the obvious 'big ones'... "S'far as thank-yous'," and the much older man shrugs loosely.
"Eh, I had my fuckin' self-centred reasons fer doing it, M." All the classic discomfort signs of accepting gratitude with grace, there... but it diminishes sharply when he speaks again, lower. "Never did think it was kosher t'squander what we c'n do on just makin' ourselves fuckin' glass demigods. Some people study the big 'E' n'come away figuring it's all about chaos n' destruction, like it frickin' justifies bein' selfish goddamned pricks. Doin' shit with what ya got. 'E' teaches just the opposite: Teaches that what you do an' don't do bloody means somethin'. Changes shit. More rigid the fate more easily broken far as I've seen."
[Molly Quincannon] The ballcap palaver gets a little half-smile of thanks - they both have expressive faces, and use them as such - and that's the end of that. The comment about not making her ticker explode gets a mischievous, fond and understanding grin, acknowledgement of the joke, and the double-standard. That, too, goes by the wayside, though this one gets a verbal address, of sorts: "I'd chuck it all and start dancing at the Boom-Boom Room if the key word in 'titty bar' wasn't 'titty'. But it's nice to be appreciated."
The rest is the bit she focuses on; she listens. It's something new to learn, because... "I ... never saw it that way. The bit about destruction and chaos and rot being all it's for. Don't think I've ever bent it that way, myself. Looked for weak spots, sure, but ... I always figured it was more about ... possibility, potential. S'why I like it so much, I think. Dunno if that makes me naive or enlightened, but I'll take it."
Then, with a bit of a chuckle, she adds, "Anyway, that bit of it wasn't what I meant by 'not just'. What I meant was... Over the last month, I've done things I might not have done otherwise. Had the opportunity to help someone I might not have been able to. Seen things I wouldn't have, or at least not in the same way. I met people who ... y'know, gave me a different perspective, like every person does. I've had experiences I wouldn't have had ... maybe. Probably. Not in the same way, anyway. It wasn't about the ... us being us thing. It was about the adventure I got to have. That's worth a lot to me." Surely he knows Cultists. Surely he has at least some idea how much that means to her.
[Lucien Anders] There's another one of his bemused snorts as she speaks about titty bars, the cap of his beer twisted off so she can take a swig as they move, "Hate t'break it to ya, doll, but it's the nude we're lookin' fer, not so much the size." and a side long look, "And ya ain't that flat. Bet they'd wibble-wobble just fine." And, yes, a nice little leer to tie the bow on the dirty ol' man flourish.
But then the conversation is more serious and Lucien can certainly do serious, even if for him there is always an underscoring of intensity and... impatience? Jadedness? He's not all sunshine and rainbows, that's for sure and he isn't remotely 'zen'. "Everything falls apart, everythin' got that touch'a chaos. S'why 'E' is tied t'Fate, Mary. What's Fate but unraveled threads? Ain't been woven or cut yet. People ain't wrong t'focus on destruction n' chaos ' rot... but they tend t'miss the point, s'all. But manipulatin' 'E' c'n be destructive as all hell, even when ya don't mean it t'be. Somethin' t'keep in mind."
She speaks of the oppourtunity for experiences and he chuckles: But his expression is understanding, if in an amused way. "S'way t'keep optimistic, I've always figured. Me? Fuck, some things I don't need 'r want experience, enlightening 'r not." There's a slight wince though, "Prefer you don't call it an 'Adventure' though... nightmare, maybe. Adventures s'like yer tryin' t'add glamour to it. "
[Molly Quincannon] Ah, laughter is such a good thing ... even when it involves nearly choking on a mouthful of beer. When she's through making sure fermented hops isn't draining into her airway, she says, "More than a handful's wasted, eh? I like your style."
But then it's back to seriousness, and she listens carefully to what he has to say about Entropy, unravelled threads, destructive potential and a thing to keep in mind. And it will be kept in mind, it's clear - she is at a point in her life where she's learned enough to know that there is so very much that she doesn't know. She doesn't take a lesson lightly.
She grows more serious yet at the last bit, and shakes her head. "Not glamour. Perspective. I mean ... maybe there are experiences that we don't ... technically need. And sure as hell didn't want. But we get them. We get ... Twisted people--" and yes, that's a capital, and it's not the commonly used term, but they're in public and it's clear enough to someone who's been around the block a few times what she means "--doing really atrocious things to us. Or we have people we love taken from us. Or we get beaten up, or a great many volts to the head, or severe burns, or even just having to do things that disgust or horrify us to get the best end result that can ever come of that kind of thing. It's either take the good, look at it as an adventure and cope ... or let it drive you crazy. I'd rather go for the former. Too many people I know - or at least know of - wallow. It ... changes them. Hurts them. Closes them off. I'm not going out like that. Besides, not all adventures have happy endings, or end up with any kind of white-knight hero. I'm not that naive. Besides ... I made a couple of kids' lives better this month. Even if it was just with coconut lip balm and adding weight to the 'we can get a puppy' side of the scale. I'll take my wins where I can get 'em."
[Lucien Anders] [[pause!]]
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