Logs:Threads

Threads
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Winona, Flèche	2024-02-01 "Sinister motives might've been more comforting."
Location <NYC> Washington Square Park - Greenwich Village
Behind a majestic white marble arch, a smaller cousin of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, this beautiful green space is a popular destination for the young, the hip, and the artistic. A huge circular wading fountain is the centerpiece, ringed by benches, playgrounds, dog runs, gaming tables, and lush green lawns. In fair weather, the park is almost always crowded with tourists, students, chess enthusiasts, and local families come to tire out their children and dogs. The sun isn't properly up, yet, but there's a slowly lightening grey clinging in haphazard illumination to throw the city buildings into wan relief. The actual streetlights within the park provide a bit more lighting -- haphazard as well, with half of them giving up for the night at the promise of the rising sun and the other half lit stubborn until their watch has properly concluded. One of those lights, over by the dog park, is currently falling on a sleek black-and-tan shepherd mutt, bolting eagerly across the dirt after a (slimy, filthy) ball that has just been hurled to the far end of the run. She's distracted halfway there by the darting path of a squirrel, veering aside to hop up with a jangle of paws against fence, tail wagging furiously as she stretches her head up hopeful and useless towards the tree branches above. Far across the run, the source of the flung ball. The streetlamp down at this end has gone to bed, but Lucien does not seem to mind either the darkness or the abandonment of the ball. He's leaning up against the opposite end of the fence, dressed in green-striped grey running pants and a very lightweight pullover running jacket (somewhat baggy on his rapidly diminishing frame) that was probably plenty adequate insulation while running and, now, stopped, hardly seems up to the early morning chill. In one hand he has a plastic ball thrower, tapping its cup head idly against one sneaker. In his other, his phone; he's taking the lull in Flèche's interest as an opportunity to answer a quick email. Though the dawn is only beginning, the additional light is welcome to Winona, who walks through the mostly empty dog park. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her olive coloured jacket to keep warm in the morning chill. A similarly coloured army cap pins the swoop of her hair in place, and somewhat obscures her facial features from the light of the lamps as she approaches. Her everpresent camera is strapped over her shoulder, holstered so that this time will be stored only in her memory. She gazes over to the distracted dog, and then to the similarly distracted owner. The footsteps of her approach are lighter than one might expect of her somewhat chunky combat boots, and she waits for Lucien to be done with his email before making herself obvious. When she does, it is with an upwards tilt of her chin in greeting, and a neutral, "Hey." Lucien's gaze lifts swiftly from his phone, eyes fluttering just a little bit wider. He's looking first at Winona's camera -- then only after a brief examination of this instrument, up to her face. "Ah --" is what comes out of his mouth first, with a very small wrinkle of his brows. His head inclines slightly after this, as if just now remembering his manners, although his, "Good morning," is a little vague and a little hesitant, as is his mild observation: "You do not have a dog." "Not entirely true. Old Southpaw's still limping along back wìth my parents. But no," says Winona, as she scans about the park, seemingly searching for something that is not there, "No dog to bring out here at least." She presses her bottom lip lightly between her teeth, "Maybe we can chalk it up to coincidence, a couple people randomly bumping into each other in the park. Though..." Her eyes return to Lucien, "I have been meaning to talk to you." "You do have a dog --" Lucien is saying this with a very faint warming of his eyes, a slight straightening of his posture. He may possibly be just on the verge of asking for picture evidence of said dog, but his own dog is finally returning to frisk eagerly at his feet and then sit and stare up with hopeful eyes. Lucien frowns -- looks at Flèche -- looks across the run at the ball, abandoned far away. "{I cannot throw it if you do not bring it,}" he tells her patiently, which has absolutely no effect except that the dog cocks her head to the side, impatient. With a faint chuff he lifts the ball-thrower, flinging Absolutely Nothing in an arc that Flèche nevertheless runs off after eagerly. Lucien subsides back against the fence once the dog has picked up her ball. "Our lives don't have coincidences." He tucks his phone in his pocket and looks over at Winona. "I am listening." Winona watches as Flèche chases after nothing, a smile playing across her lips as the dog arrives at the ball. "You've done me a good turn-- a lot of good turns, really. Makes me want to repay that kindness however I can. I can't express my gratitude enough." By the time this sentence concludes, the smile's playing has fully ended, and her expression is very deliberately neutral again. "I don't believe in coincidences either. When you've got a lead and things connect, you gotta follow those threads to the end. Even when it takes you some ugly places." She exhales and presses her hands further into her pockets. "I'd like to talk about our mutual doctor friend." There is something about the way she says the last word, just a hint of venom that speaks to so much more roiling beneath the surface. "I know a lot of people who are very good at what they do. I know a lot of people who want to fix some of this mess of a world. It's tragically rare that the competence and that desire align. If we continue winning that's all the gratitude I want." Lucien is reaching down for the actual ball, now, as Flèche returns to drop it at his feet. Flinging it again to send the dog once more off like a shot. His fingers tighten around the handle of his fetch toy as Winona concludes. A faint shiver runs through him, and he's somewhat futilely zipping the last inch or so of the neck of his thin jacket. "Mmm. And your threads have led you to this park." "Either that, or we've both gotta start believing in coincidence," says Winona with a shrug of her shoulders. "I've been keeping tabs on a lot of his former colleagues, the ones who've crawled under some rock or another." Her lips turn to a tense frown even as she continues to follow the dog's ball chasing prowess. "He's ended up somewhere better than some rock, though. Seems like he's found a pretty great place to work, enviable even, which you might know from first hand experience." Her jaw tightens and she pulls her shoulders inwards to ward against the chill. "Thought maybe you can share some insights on how he might have landed it." Lucien falls silent, his eyes fixed off in the direction Flèche has gone -- not following the dog, though, his gaze stays fixed as she returns. Drops the ball. Noses it optimistically into his shoe just in case he didn't notice. "A S.H.I.E.L.D. position does come with excellent benefits." He's tapping the plastic cup once more against the side of his sneaker, slow and rhythmic. His voice has slipped just a bit softer and just a bit cooler. "Director Fury wanted to keep an eye on him. Under the circumstances..." His lips compress, and this does not finish. Winona holds out her hand in case Flèche wishes to give it a sniff, to offer the dog something else to do while Lucien's attention remains elsewhere. "Under the circumstances? Most of the time, keeping an eye on someone does not come with a cheque and nice benefits." She furrows her eyebrows as she reconsiders, with a huffed, "Or at least it shouldn't. Guess it seems to more often than ought, historically." "Oh, the good doctor could buy S.H.I.E.L.D. and the rest of Times Square with it. It would not be my choosing but I can hardly pretend the check and the dental insurance make any difference to his station in life." Lucien is still neglecting his poor dog, who is amiably switching her attentions, pointy nose pushing into Winona's hand as her eagerly wagging tail swishes the dirt where she sits. "When the rats began fleeing the sinking ship over there, many of them took what projects they had been developing off into the private sector or turned around to recycle them back into the military. Toure --" He pauses, and half-turns against the fence to better face Winona. "Went to some lengths to keep one of those projects under wraps, on the condition that neither he nor his good name come to harm. With as many people as would quite rightfully be out for blood if they learned of his involvement, I hardly thought it possible to keep that bomb from exploding if your documentary exposed him before we had a chance to defuse that threat." Lucien's hand turns palm up, eyes lifting to the woman, and while there is not quite apology in his tone it is certainly flirting with regret. "Before Lassiter fell they had developed a handheld mutant detector. It scans, at a distance, in a matter of moments. I have never slept so very much but I confess I have slept considerably less since learning of its existence." Winona starts to pet Flèche around the ears once she gets the implied go-ahead from the dog's snout. She listens to Lucien's explanation with a tight frown, looking over to him even as she delivers pets to the dog. It is only at the last part of the explanation that a cold pallor starts to creep over her. "That would change things... a great deal," she says, now trying to extract comfort from Flèche's warm fur. "And it ties together some of those loose threads. Though I can't even say whether or not it is a relief, sinister motives might've been more comforting." She closes her eyes. "Well. If my particular skillset would help, let's see to defusing." "I have been working to track down all the redundancies in his plan so that he can be safely disposed of. He is rather meticulous, though, and I expect your investigative skills would serve very well here." Lucien scoops the ball back up in its holder, but doesn't throw it. He sinks back against the fence, his eyes lowering to watch Winona's fingers scrunch into Flèche's fur. "I wish I could tell you I had simply sold my soul away for a comfortable position. I should rather have damnation in my future than the genocide that has been lurking there every time I close my eyes." Lucien shakes his head slowly. One corner of his mouth twitches, brief and humourless. "I suppose we have no choice but to keep winning."