ArchivedLogs:What is Presented to Remember

What is Presented to Remember
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Kyinha	2016-02-10 A discussion on memory
Location <NYC> Q-Tip - East Harlem
This is the kind of place you go to when you want a dive bar but don't want to wait for compete for use of the sole pool table covered with suspicious stains that always leans toward one corner pocket. Q-Tip may not be fancy, but its tables are solid and the drinks are decent. The bartenders are polite but taciturn, the regulars are diverse but largely blue collar men with a sprinkling of hipsters, and the neon-lit jukebox always seems to be playing classic rock. Q-Tip is not exactly the hottest spot in New York, but by the time evening rolls around, the volume is comfortably loud with the clack of pool cues against balls, the chatter of friends and strangers filling the room and bouncing off of the walls. The tables are mostly full, pairs and triples of people drinking and laughing; the line at the bar is considerably sparser, with only a handful of stools taken up. One of the stools at the back is occupied by a man sitting and staring into the thick dark liquid in the glass in front of him. His hair is buzzed down to a close quarter of an inch, and the sweater hangs off of his body as if it doesn't quite fit. He sighs, heavily, as he lifts the glass and takes a long swig from it, gulping and almost chewing the beer on its way down. A willowy young man with dark brown skin and glossy waves of black hair sweeps in and alights at the bar. He's wearing A three-quarter length aqua coat, space-dyed blue scarf, and matching hat and gloves, shedding these one by one onto the straight back of the bar stool beside Iolaus. He stops in the midst of this operation to flash a sidelong smile at him, "This seat isn't taken?" His accent is hard to place -- Portugese, with a heavy dose of something else. Beneath the coat he wears a blue-purple gradient vest over a black button-down shirt (no tie, top button open) and crisp black trousers. Catches the bartender's eye. "Cubra Libre, {please.}" "No, it's not taken. Go ahead." Iolaus says, gesturing with a hand. Blue-grey eyes survey the young man with a flicking glance of curiosity, before they return to looking at his drink. He takes another sip - a longer one, this time - before replacing the glass on the counter. "Uruguay?" Iolaus guesses, tone clearly a question, though his eyes don't move from the beer in front of him. "{Or Brazil? Doesn't sound like Portugal.}" Iolaus says, switching over to a quiet string of effortless Spanish. "Brazil," Kyinha replies easily, smiling wider. "{It is summer back home, now. This, I am not so used to.}" His Spanish carries the same heavy Portugese-and-something-else accent. He slides a ten to the bartender when he brings over the drink. When he settles down to enjoy his drink there's a slight weary sink of his shoulders. "{Where are you from, then?}" "{You get used to it; I promise.}" Iolaus replies, picking up his glass and taking a long sip. His eyes close for a second as he swallows, holding the glass and swirling the half-full liquid around idly. "{I'm from here -- up north, in Massachusetts. But my mother was from Mexico, so, I picked up Spanish and Catholicism.}" It's not quite a smile, but there's at least a noticable spasm of his lips for a moment after. "{I've been here only a few years, haven't adjusted yet.}" Kyinha raises his drink in a lazy salute. "{But I'll take your word for it -- you've had many more of these awful northeastern winters, yes?}" Takes a long sip. "{My name is Kyinha.}" There's a sparkle of humor in his dark brown eyes, even if his lips aren't smiling. "{You?}" There is a few moments hesitation before the older man responds. "{Many, many more. Most of my life. It helps to grow up with it, I fear.}" He pauses again. "{My name is Iolaus. It's good to meet you, Kyinha.}" This time, Iolaus finishes the glass and gestures the bartender for another one. "{Well, I'll adjust or I'll start vacationing in warmer climes.}" Kyinha sets his drink down and studies the other man for a long moment. "{Iolaus /Saavedro?/}" His eyebrows climb up. Iolaus mutters a string of Greek under his breath, a dark grumble. "{No, Richard was too good for you. Had to pick something so common as Iolaus, huh?}" Iolaus glares at his empty glass, sighs, then turns to match the other man's eyes with his own blue-grey ones. "{Yes. Saavedro.}" Kyinha blinks, but makes no comment on the Greek. Only nods in reply to the confirmation, his expression fairly neutral. "{Fame attracts scandals.}" This simply with a shrug. "{I'm not going to interrogate you about that. You do not look like you've had an easy time of it, though.}" Iolaus chuckles at this, though there is little humor in the sound. "{It has been an... interesting few months.}" His tone is dry, and when the bartender appears with his drink -- a Guinness -- he immediately picks it up and takes a long sip. His eyes turn to examine Kyinha's expression for a moment, curiously. "{Most say that my whole career is a scandal, even notwithstanding recent events. You don't?}" "{Haven't followed your /whole/ career,}" Kyinha replies lightly, "{but I understand you helped develop a cure for the English sickness. That, surely is no scandal.}" He cocks his head at the doctor, giving him an appraising look. "{Do I have good cause to think otherwise?}" Iolaus' lips twitch again -- not a smile, yet not exactly a seizure of the facial muscles either. "{I would be concerned if you had. And yes, a team - including myself - did come up with the cure at the Mendel Clinic. Still, some would argue that the cure wouldn't have been necessary if not for people like me.}" Kyinha props his chin up in the heel of one hand, picking up his drink in the other. Swishes it around. "{What do you suppose they would mean by that?}" There's a keen yet languid quality to the way he's watching Iolaus, like a big cat that isn't particularly hungry at the moment but /could/ maybe eat. No stranger to games of will, Iolaus' eyes match Kyinha's, and his voice is steady and calm despite the lines under his eyes and the tiredness in his gaze. "{I think they mean if only mutants and their supporters were all kept away from civilized people, then the disease would never have spread in the first place.}" Iolaus is still for a moment before he breaks his gaze and turns back to his drink. "{Ridiculous, of course. Even if you executed them all instead of quarantining them, you would always have more mutants being born. It wouldn't have stopped anything, and we certainly wouldn't have been able to cure it without their help.}" Kyinha blinks, arches one eyebrow high. "{I'm under the impression the plague wouldn't have happened if a certain government program hadn't tortured one particular young man in a bid to create new bioweapons.}" He takes a long sip of his drink without averting his gaze from Iolaus. "{Not that I think that would stop people from imagining isolation or genocide legitimate solutions to potential future outbreaks.}" This time, Iolaus does smile -- and it's a grim, wan thing. "{Quite. I never said that most people had intelligent things to say, mind you. Unfortunately, people have very selective memories. They remember things that they want, and they forget things they don't.}" Iolaus takes another heavy swig of the thick beer in front of him. "Mmm." Kyinha's hum sounds kind of noncommittal. "{It's not merely what people selectively remember, but what is presented for them /to/ remember. And how.}" He drains his drink and smiles a bright, fey smile. "{I suppose you mean that you remember -- the things you want, and the things you do not?}" Iolaus looks curiously at the other man, silent for several seconds as he digests the question. "That is a very interesting suggestion." Iolaus says, speaking suddenly in English and then once more back to Spanish. "{I remember many things, but I'm sure I forget just as many. Perhaps I am someone else's 'they', here.}" Iolaus' lips quirk up at the edges. "{Perhaps yours?}" Iolaus lifts his glass and drains it, then stands up smoothly with only the slightest of wobbles. "It was my pleasure to meet you."