ArchivedLogs:Approaching Storms

Approaching Storms
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Neve	2014-07-26 On the subject of Prometheus's impending explosion.
Location <NYC> Neve's Apartment - Upper West Side
The only enclosed room in this studio apartment is the bathroom. Everything else from kitchen to living area is open. The rear wall is almost entirely glass, a huge trio of windows that overlooks Central Park. The walls are exposed brick and the floors dark polished wood but the room is saved from gloominess thanks to those windows, which admit a steady dose of sunlight during the day. The small kitchen is to the right upon entering, two caddycornered counters inset with a stainless steel fridge, stove and dishwasher combo. To the left, the bathroom. Closer to the window, the occupant has divided sleep and relaxing areas with a tall folding screen--the silk panels have been handpainted with open lotuses and a suggestion of calm water. The queen-sized bed is tucked behind this, made up in reclaimed sari silks in a variety of colors. Before the screen, a small sage loveseat faces a trunk repurposed for use as a coffeetable, with a flat screen TV hung on the opposite wall above a bureau. Pride of place in this studio is the floor to ceiling shelving unit beside the couch, tucked into the corner created by the bathroom wall. It prevents the room from feeling larger due to its size but makes up for that by holding countless potted plants, ranging from herbs and tiny cherry tomato plants to fancy orchids basking under UV lamps and automatic misters. It's decidedly a /rude/ hour to be dropping in on someone unannounced, stupidly early on a Saturday morning. Though perhaps in a Themis line of work there are rather more awkward-people-in-crisis calls than in other professions. Lucien, though, looks neither like a troublemaker /nor/ particularly troubled. Well-groomed, well-polished, professionally attired if not overly dressy in grey trousers and vest, salmon-pink button-down. He was, apparently, convincing enough to get the doorman to let him up, at least, because the knock comes on Neve's door -- three polite taps, repeated if necessary after an also polite interval of waiting that does not suggest impatience so much as an acknowledgement that it /is/ stupidly early and, perhaps, people might still be sleeping. There's a small black portfolio case in one of his hands, his other empty. For the knocking. Repetition is indeed necessary but successful. In the lull after the last set of knocks, there's a sense of movement behind the door. No sound, at first, but a flicker of light behind the peephole, a longer moment of darkness as Lucien is studied, and then the rattle of a lock and a chain being undone. The door opens. And she stands there in a sliver of open space. Her hair is short, cornsilk blonde and poofy from sleep. Maybe she tried to order it on the way to the door but mostly it sticks up and out in a corona around her head. A leaf green robe of thin terrycloth is thrown over a t-shirt and yoga pants combo. Brown eyes, likewise puffy from recent dreaming, are turned up to Lucien but at first there is a dreadful /blankness/ to Neve's expression--a lack of expression, a vacuum. Then something clicks in and her lips curl, her eyes narrow, she directs puzzled warmth at the man. "Yes? Can I help you?" There's a moment of silence, Lucien's bright green eyes fixing on Neve's brown ones. His fingers tighten against the handle of his case, and there is a faint echoing tightness at the corners of his eyes. It takes a slow long minute before he manages to find a small tip of head in a nod, a very fleeting-faint polite smile. "N--eve Leone?" There's only the slightest hitch of stumbling in this first name. "I apologize for the intrusion, I know it is a terribly impolite hour to be dropping by unannounced. I would have waited till a more decent hour but I --" His eyes haven't left hers; there's a small pause as he finally drops his gaze, eyes briefly sliding closed. "Needed to reach you in a. Timely. Manner." It seems almost a struggle to get these last words out, though his manner has eased again somewhat by the time he opens his eyes again. Neve stands quietly throughout and the look on her face doesn't change. Puzzled. Warm. Maybe there's a slight increase in the former as the assortment of hitches and hesitations are heard. But with her brain still not firing on all cylinders, she too is left hesitating. Her head turns slightly, a hand is lifted to knuckle at one eye, trying to clear away the foggy. "Um," she vocalizes, filler in place of proper conversation. "It's all right," is what she decides on, after. The door is opened a little further, allowing a glimpse of the apartment beyond. Her smile steadies and strengthens. "I was going to be up soon anyway. What's this in regards to?" Having asked, her gaze drops to flicker over him and her thoughts are clear: a reporter maybe? "As you might expect, in regards to Themis House and your involvement with them." Lucien's eyes have settled back on Neve's face, a quiet reserve to his tone. "I have news that concerns you and I -- did not want." Here he hesitates again, pulling in a slow breath. "I wanted to make sure you heard. Before the rest of the world does." "I…" Am not sure what to say, apparently. Neve stands poised, lips parted and eyes still set on Lucien beneath lightly furrowed brows. After a moment her lashes lower and her forehead creases a little more, sign of some internal argument. The smile is gone, a frown replacing it. But only briefly. The moment passes and she steps back, steps aside, holding the door open. "Please, come in. Have a seat and I'll make some...tea? I have Earl Grey." Lucien's head dips in a small nod; he slips inside, something almost like a smile touching at his lips. "I never can say no to a cup of tea." His accent-tinged voice is soft, gentler than his previous quiet professional-neutral tone. "Thank you. I -- should probably introduce myself. My name is Lucien Tessier. You sent me a letter last week -- regarding my brother, Matthieu." Neve is caught in the act of closing the door when the introduction comes. It's his surname that gives her pause and prompts a quick, startled glance. She begins to turn towards Lucien only to freeze entirely when he continues. One can track the loss of color in her face, like a cup draining. She'd left the door closed but unlocked. As she blanches, she turns back towards it and fumbles the chain into place--there's no steadiness in her fingers. "His...yes. Matthieu. And you…" Her back is still to him but with that broken sentence, she looks back at the case he carries. Neve catches her lower lip between her teeth...and then slides away from the door to retreat into the kitchen. The kettle is filled to be placed on the stove, cups are reached for. There is a lot of /industry/. "How do you take your tea, Mr. Tessier?" That faint tightness returns to the corners of Lucien's eyes at this question (at this name); he does not take a seat but follows to linger outside the perimeter of the kitchen, eyes drifting away briefly to linger on the plants in the room and then shifting back to watch the bustle of preparation. "{There was a time once when you knew --}" Though this is only a low murmur, sotto voce as he watches Neve in the kitchen. More properly aloud: "Just black, is fine." His thumb traces slowly against the grain of stitching in the leather handle of his case. "I am not sure," he continues -- still even, still /quiet/, neutral tone lending no particular weight yet to his words, "how intimate your ongoing ties with Prometheus /are/ -- I am uncertain how quickly they relay information to you. But if you had not yet been informed, my brother is home with us, again." Neve must miss that murmur, or at least its meaning--she glances over but returns to her preparations, the time direly needed to regain composure. It isn't to be, though. When that last statement is made, a teacup clatters hard against its saucer--it sounds like it must have chipped, or cracked--and her hands curl over the counter's edge to help counteract a sudden need to /sag/ on the part of her knees. It is only a brief delay between standing and sitting. Once she has muscle control to do so, Neve sinks and sits with her back against the cabinet door. With a hand pressed hard to her mouth, it's difficult to tell her expression. There's pain gathered at the corner of her eyes. But then her cheeks round. There's a smile, hurt though it is, hiding behind her fingers. "Safe?" is her lone, hoarse contribution to the conversation. Lucien's lips press tightly together; he stands still and impassive through this -- save for a small twitch of one hand that /almost/ reaches towards Neve as she sags. His hand presses tight to his side after this, though, shoulders faintly tensed as she sinks to the ground. At the question there is a hard /clench/ to his jaw. He pulls in a slow breath. Pushes it back out. He moves /on/ from this without, actually, giving an answer: "I am here to try and ensure -- in some small part -- that /you/ will be. By the time I leave here, Neve, the truth of your involvement -- Themis's involvement -- with Prometheus will be out there in the news. All of it -- your fabricated life history, the sham that is your autobiography, Dr. Leone's collaboration with the torture they were conducting there, how my brother was imprisoned and subjected to --" He pulls in a breath again. "Prometheus itself is on the verge of going down in flames. Themis House has built its -- treatment --" There's a quiet distaste in his voice, here, slipping in for the first time into his previously even tone, "on a foundation of slavery and death. And that story is going public, exactly now. It is, of course, up to you entirely how you deal with the oncoming storm. I wanted you to have a chance, perhaps, to find safe harbor in which to weather it." Comprehension comes slowly, struggling up through a sticky mix of confusion and uncertainty. Whatever gladness she'd felt upon hearing Lucien's news of Matt, it's wiped away as he unveils /more/. At one point, Neve takes a breath and tries to speak, a brief, "But…" only to have that go unfinished. After that, she waits until he's done. And then she tucks a knee beneath her and rises, hand on counter again to help her stand. "I'm...I'm sorry, Mr. Tessier. I'm not sure I...understand." Some part of her must; there's a tinge of green in her complexion now, an easy tint to see with her pallor. But strongest is the confusion. "It's...what you're saying is...a sham? That's...it's good that…" Thus ends Neve's attempt at speaking. The attempt is replaced with a frown, and two fingers pressed against her temple. Her eyes lower again. The bubble and hiss of the kettle, on the verge of whistling, is what breaks that pose. She reaches out to snap the burner off but makes no move to continue with tea preparations either. Somewhere, composure is found. It slips into place, notches over the shaken. "I'm afraid there's been some mistake," she says, lowering her hand, lifting her face. A smile rests lightly over her lips. "Some misunderstanding. I'll speak with my father, I'm sure he'll clear this all up." There is another brief clench to Lucien's jaw, a small tightness to his expression that soon vanishes into a return of quiet calm. In answer to this he sets the case on the counter, opening its top flap to trail one long finger through the folders within. He slides one of them out, offering it in silence to Neve. Inside are printed copies of files taken from Prometheus's systems. Documentation -- rather extensive -- of Neve's path through the labs. Nox's path through the labs. "I have," he says, glancing down again at the case, "quite a bit more, if you'd like to see it. The tortures they inflicted on my brother to obtain the treatment you and your group pushes. The work the man who purports to be your father was doing with these people." For a moment his words hitch into silence, his own face a bit paler than it had been before. "I realize," his voice has slipped softer again, "that the upcoming days stand a good chance of -- destroying the life you have here. But it's a life that's been fabricated for you. There was never truth to it. It's a life built on suffering. I would --" A twinge of pain briefly wakens in his eyes, quiets again. "-- rather like you to have the opportunity to build one on a stronger foundation." "I'm sure it's all a mistake," Neve is saying even as she accepts the folder. Her tone hasn't changed, it still comes with that smile, the composure. Beneath that something might shift in her eyes but she's flicked them downwards as she opens the folder. And there it is. All the proof she needs to see it isn't a mistake. As she looks, and reads, her fingers begin to tighten against the thick cardstock, the papers within. A trembling starts, a shivering and then finally a shaking as the force of her hands crumple what they hold. But her face, her face has smoothed out--it's taken on the same blank mask she wore when looking at Lucien for the first time in her doorway. Beneath the mask, a muscle ticks in her jaw; teeth are gritted and she breathes through them. Neve can't possibly still be reading, not with the quake occurring in her hands, but she holds the pose until a spasm travels up her arms. Her hands clap together, the folder between them. "Your name," she rasps, "is Neve Leone and he is a stranger. Your name. Take it. Please. Now. My...head. Hurts." Lucien is quiet through this initial assertion, just watching as Neve opens the folder and looks at its contents. There is a faint widening of his eyes after this spasm, a small uptick of his brows. It takes a moment of delay but then he steps forward, reaching to take the folder back -- with it, his fingers touch lightly against hers, assessing even as a very subtle-soft whisper of feeling slips out, cooling and calm, to gently dull the edges of headache with a barely-there feather-light touch. There's a war on in her head--adrenaline and cortisol high, endorphins low to let that pounding headache slip in and stake a claim. Relief, even light relief, allows Neve to push the tremors back and gulp a lungful of air. With the folder gone, she pulls her hands back and shoves them beneath her arms to pin their trembling down. Loss of touch means a returning surge, though, and she sinks down against the cabinetry. It seems to go after that. The effects ebb, without the folder's contents before her, and without Lucien's quiet unraveling of certain questionable truths. After a moment she lifts her head to study him with watery eyes. "I need...to go to him. That's what...go to Edward. When he sees the news. You can't be here." Lucien drops his hands back to his sides, lifting them again a moment later to slip the folder back into his case. "That," he says with some regret, "is the last thing you need to do. That man is not your father. He is not even your friend." Though after this he just picks his case back up, other hand lifting to pinch thumb and forefinger at the bridge of his nose. "Your life is about to get very complicated. Very /dangerous/, even. You may not remember it, but you made a choice. Knowing full well who these people were and what suffering they were complicit in. You were complicit, too. And there are a lot of people out there who are not going to overlook that." His hand drops, eyes briefly closing before he looks at her again. He reaches into his pocket, slips out a card -- plain and white, business-sized but unprinted, there is only a handwritten phone number. "I did not come here in order to ruin your life. I came here let you know that through all of the ugliness about to ensue, you have options. People who will help see you safely through it." He sets the card down on the counter where the portfolio had been, eyes lingering on Neve a moment longer before he turns, smoothing a hand down over the front of his vest and heading for the door. "Dangerous," Neve says, a dull repetition. Her eyes follow the movement of Lucien's hand from case to pocket to counter but she remains where she is for now, finding more steadiness seated with back braced. So from the floor she meets and holds the lingering gaze he offers, and when he turns to go, she swallows. The headache must be creeping in again, as she lifts the heel of her palm to press to temple. It spikes when she says, softly as he'd first spoken in French upon arrival, "I knew you," and the grimace that follows twists her face into a gargoyle's leer. Then she's scrambling, rushing, flying past kitchen and living space to make it to the bathroom. The door slams behind her, the clang of the toilet's lid being thrown open drifting through immediately thereafter. He's left to show himself out, while the phone beside her bed begins to trill. "Some people are remarkably unforgiving." Lucien's voice in answer to this 'dangerous' is exceedingly dry, his expression hidden with his back turned to head to the door. His steps hitch, though, breath briefly catching at those soft words. There's a quiet creak of leather as his fingers tighten hard against the handle of his case, head turning slightly back towards Neve. In profile, his face is an uncomfortable blend of soft and hard; the small-slow dip of his head in silent acknowledgment, the half-veiled lowering of lashes, jostling up against the definitive tension tightening the line of his jaw. "{When no-one else did.}" He turns back towards the door, breath pushed back out and his hand lingering -- clenching -- releasing -- the doorknob as Neve flees. The slam of the bathroom door is echoed at a long delay by the much softer click of the latch back closed behind him.