capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

No, nothing like that. [ He waved a hand. He felt on the spotlight, like this was going to get messy, fast. He couldn't stop the lies, though, they spilled forth from lips that only told lies these days. It would be easier for everyone involved, if they all thought they were lies. Already, he struggled with the worry about those who did know that Adrian Maskin and Mitchell Hundred were one and the same.

It made him fear for his life, in more ways than one. ]

I've written plenty of books on the subject, but eventually, you have to move your message to a new venue.

[ He poured himself another drink, calm and collected, despite the fact that he was anything but. He wasn't. He wanted out, but how did you just leave a guy, two guys that could be hurting in more ways than one? He wasn't drunk, not by a long shot, even with a few drinks, a tolerance built up over years of drinking on an empty stomach.

He couldn't just leave either of the guys to potentially see more trouble. ]

[ With Nelson to distract his focus, it was easy enough for Bradbury's gaze to fall on Maskin. It was a distraction from the throb in his shoulder, the weird, depressing mood that seemed to linger in the air. This wasn't a house where friends visited -- Nelson looked like he possibly hadn't had anyone he could call his friend in a long time, if Bradbury was any judge. It wasn't just the house, though. The City itself felt different, swollen like an overripe fruit, sickly-sweet but rotten at the core.

He shook the mental image off. ]

What makes you think there are people who want to listen?

[ He couldn't help it, the split of a grin that took his face. He was confident, maybe too confident about this. He crossed his arms as he did so, holding the glass at the juncture of an elbow. ]

Because I'm a bestseller, that's why.

[ It was true. That's why the government thought he was dangerous, after all. They couldn't have someone sowing the seeds of dissent often, and not well. The problem was that Mitchell was painfully easy to hide, and not enough people knew his new face. He'd been careful, he'd constructed everything about the new identity down to the birth records.

So people listened, and the debate was heating up again, thankfully. }

[ There was something about that grin that tugged at memory, though Bradbury brushed it off. He hadn't thought about that in years, and he sure as hell wasn't about to start now. ]

Yeah, a bestseller I've never heard of. Who was stupid enough to go wandering around the City at night.

[ He wasn't even sure how many hours it had been, since that encounter and this one. Wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a sign, or some fucked up... something. He didn't know. ]

So, you write about ImPorts, huh? [ He tipped his head. Watching that grin spread. ]

Why? What's in it for you?

[ Meanwhile, in the kitchen: Nelson's taken a little longer than planned to even find the ingredients he's looking for, weaving around the kitchen a little aimlessly. He had wanted, mostly, to distance himself from any accusations of inebriation (maybe he was a little tipsy, but he just needed some food) and from what he was still sober enough to recognize as a desire for affection that only loneliness, desperation, and/or alcohol brought out in such stark degrees. In the kitchen, apart from them, even he could be somewhat embarrassed by some of his own behavior.

Though that doesn't keep him from muttering to himself as he finally begins to cook, turning the stove on and searching for some chicken or fish or even beef he could cook up quickly. A peptalk, of sorts. ]

It's all right. Slowly, now. This is simple, you've done it a thousand times...

And when you go back out there remember to keep your hands to yourse--

[ He drops a bottle of olive oil, which lands with a crash. ]

Oh damn. [ And he says more loudly, for Maskin and Bradbury's benefit: ] Everything's great! Don't worry about a thing. It should be just ten minutes more.

[ His eyebrows quirked at Bradbury, questioning Nelson's actions more than his question. He didn't hear anything wrong, so he wasn't about to go charging into the kitchen like a hyper-perceptive human being. No need to leave anyone with questions about why Maskin seemed just a bit too much like he could hear something others couldn't.

He'd gotten damn good at faking that. ]

Just yell if you need some help. [ He raised his voice for Nelson's benefit, before leaning against the small table with the liquor, finally setting his glass down, and crossing his arms. What the hell kind of a question had he been asked before Nelson interjected? He felt on the spotlight, like Bradbury was hunting for something. Even if he didn't realize what it was.

It left him cautious. ]

Because we don't know anything about you guys, that's why. If we understood imports, maybe this wouldn't have happened. [ He paused, still holding his hands where they were. It was a Maskin pose, something he'd taken on as a part of his old identity, where Mitchell Hundred may have gestured wildly, Maskin was reserved. ]

I don't know about you, but gross breaches of civil rights aren't something I can stand by and let happen, even if it doesn't effect me.

[ It wasn't obvious, how much he'd started to relax against the couch, letting the flow of the conversation carry him, until the shattering of glass broke the conversation and his head snapped up, tension crackling through him like electricity through a live wire. ]

Just don't burn down the place.

[ That was for Nelson's benefit, though his eyes didn't leave Maskin's face, watching him speak. The slight frown furrowing his brow might have been faint concern, or maybe having to concentrate past the soft fog the medication cast over everything. Finally, he snorted, leaning back against the couch and tipping his head back against the couch, shutting his eyes. The years had faded it to little more than a thin, silvery line, but there was still a scar on his chin that cut through the stubble, and he lifted his good hand to rub at it with a finger as his mouth crooked into wry, tired smile. ]

Yeah, well. Hopefully a bestselling author has better luck convincing America's middle class to give a shit than -- [ My boss, he almost said, but choked on the words before they could even get out, swallowing reflexively before he fought it down. ]

Who knows? Maybe you can be the hero we needed all along.

Have a little faith in me, would you? I do know how to use an oven.

[ He raised his voice again, dropping a dish towel on the mess to tend to as the meat cooked with only slight frustration at himself. As Nelson managed finally, with some difficulty, to heat the stove burners, and put some chicken and beef -- he didn't have enough of either for three -- on a pan, he wandered toward to the door to ask if either man had a preference toward how their meat was cooked. He didn't quite make it to opening the door, though; once he was close enough, he caught a few threads of their conversation and opted instead to put his ear closer to the door in mild curiosity. Even know, talk of heroes always caught his interest. ]

I'm no hero.

[ He mentioned, turning to pour another drink. He felt a stab of guilt that was too raw to deal with. He did feel guilt, of course he did. What he was doing compounded into a complex web of lies that was too deep and too vast to really stride across. He couldn't breach his web.

But that didn't mean he didn't feel like shit about it. He held it with the rest of his burdens, everything else he'd done. He poured his drink, before turning, brown eyes scanning the room. He gestured outside, with a finger extended from the glass he was still holding. ]

The middle class are never going to care, as long as they don't lose their homes or their jobs. I understand the frustration, I've been through it too. It's hard to fear for your life, when imports have more power than they can handle.

[ He opened his eyes at that, sitting up straighter and looking at Maskin, brows raised, but saying nothing for a moment: just watching him, like he was trying to figure out how honest he was being right now. ]

So what changed your mind about ImPorts? [ Draping his free are over a knee, he ducked his head, letting his hair fan into his face and frame a wry, crooked smile. ]

I figured the reason people get pissed at us is because they figured we'd all be like Superman.

[ He snorted, soft. It was involuntary. ] Nobody can be like him.

[ He paused, drinking. That was an uncomfortable subject. He needed to move it along, and he waved a hand, trying to clear the air of talk about Superman. That was not an avenue he wanted to go down. ]

Anyway, nothing really changed my mind, exactly. It's not that I thought they weren't people. It's that the government decided that passing restrictive, essentially racist legislation was the way to go. I disagree.

You come up with that speech yourself?

[ Bradbury couldn't help it, laughing out loud, sliding further into the couch again. ]

You in politics or something? Because if not, you should be.

[ Politics had never been a subject he'd been too interested in, and these days, it was one that he religiously avoided. He shrugged, forgetting his injured shoulder, and flinched as the motion tugged on fresh wounds. ]

Shit. [ He muttered, looking down dourly at the gauze on his shoulder like it had personally offended him. ]

[ It felt like a trap. Oh hell, anything involving him and politics was a trap. It didn't matter that people didn't think so, or rather, the import identity they often attributed to Adrian Maskin was not Mitchell Hundred. He'd made sure of that. He answered after catching himself mid-drink, giving himself a moment to dance on his heels. Figure out where to go. ]

No, I write books. I mean, they're books about politics, I suppose, but I've never actually gotten into the business. Not yet, anyway. I've been considering it.

[ Well, the ever-reclusive Adrian Maskin making a rare several appearances through the City? Hell, if that wasn't gearing for politics, he didn't know what was. ]

I'm being honest, though, by the way. It's not a speech.

Don't.

[ The word was sharp and curt, the latter half of his spiel ignored entirely, as Bradbury smiled and shook his head -- quick and fleeting, but unmistakable bitterness in the curl of his lip. ]

You like being able to say what's on your mind? You like being able to write what you want? Don't go into politics. Once you're up there, you're not gonna be able to do a damn thing you want.

Politics'll kill you, pal. Take it from me. [ Strangely, something in his face softened, even as he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet -- not to move himself towards Maskin, but to shuffle towards the window, but not before he dug into the jacket he'd dropped on the couch, fishing out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He wasn't looking at Maskin when he staggered towards a window, murmuring words that weren't meant for the other man at all. ]

I lost my best friend that way.

Sorry.

[ It's a little softer, like he can recognize that it wasn't easy. Christ, this was awkward. He wanted to back up, get out to where Nelson was, figure out if he needed help, or something. Anything. He could use another pair of hands in the kitchen, right?

Ah, but who the fuck was he kidding? He still couldn't cook for shit. He'd just get in the way, but he didn't think the time that it would afford him would be much appreciated by Nelson.

He hovered instead, eyeing the cigarettes. His fingers itched, twitching on impulse. An old ache, a habit he'd picked up more of, but this was someone else's home, and he wasn't about to actually start going for cigarettes out his window. But what the fuck did he say to that?

At least, what did he say that didn't sound like him? ]

I'm sure that's not true. I mean, I'm sure there are sacrifices, but it's politics, not government censorship. People will listen, if I speak loud enough.

That's assuming you still want to speak.

[ One handed, he worked the window open, the bluntness of the comment softened by distraction -- it was a little hard to do it, while holding on to a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He nearly dropped both, and when he glanced up, he caught the look in the other man's eye, and he gave him a wry grin. ]

You smoke? [ He was already working one out the pack, tapping it out until he could tug it with his teeth, and the next words had to be worked around the stick in his mouth. ]

Help yourself. [ He tossed the pack to Maskin, then turned away, bringing the lighter up to wake the end of his cigarette into a dull, cherry glow. The pack he'd tossed over was the last of the cigarettes he'd gotten for his last birthday -- the only vice he still claimed -- the stronger, harsher flavor he favored. The real thing, too -- there were some benefits to traveling overseas.

Leaning out a window to smoke without over balancing was a tough act, when you didn't have a hand free to lean on, but he managed, exhaling smoke into the haze-filled night. ]

[ It's about this point, ear still pressed to the door, Nelson realizes the food might be starting to burn. Oddly enthralling as their conversation's become to him -- in so much as he's able to hear it, at least -- he pries himself away, rushing over to the oven and managing to turn the heat down and pull the food out before anything is ruined or catches fire. It's a little overcooked, maybe, but he hopes not badly enough that they'll really notice. He even remembers, at the last minute, not to pull everything out with his bare hands.

It'll be a few minutes more still, but the bulk of the cooking's done. He just needs to do some seasoning and prepare a side. He has, at least, some pre-tossed salad in the fridge for a side that doesn't require much thinking, but his vision and mind aren't quite focused enough for him to consider his next step too clearly, so it's parmesan cheese, vinaigrette, and barbeque sauce that gets added carefully over the meat. ]

[ For just a moment, he considers refusing, but he can't, and he knows smokers don't normally offer their cigarettes without intent. Without noticing some sign of a smoker in the other person. He'd tipped his hand, and he coughed softly, before he inched toward the window, thankfully it was rather big, so he could squeeze his middle through himself, hand reaching out for the lighter, in an unspoken, smokers request.

And when relinquished, he lit, and then returned it, his head dipping when he inhaled.

He held onto it differently. Everything was different. Every gesture, every motion. He'd been careful to relearn everything. ]

Believe me, once I get started, they won't be able to stop me. A change in fields won't change that. Come on, don't imports deserve someone to support them for once?

[ The smoking had been more an educated guess than a certainty, but it was gratifying to see that he'd been right. He passed the lighter with more graciousness than strictly necessary, before shuffling aside to give the other man more room -- and to minimize the risk of bumping his injured shoulder if either of them moved too quickly.

He'd have to get more cigarettes, he thought. With the amount of stress just being here was putting on him, he needed something.

He was too lost in his own thoughts to pay attention to anything Adrian Maskin might be doing with his hands; any scuffling in the kitchen completely slipped his attention, though the odor of burning food would have caught it soon enough, even with the cigarette smoke. ]

Some people would say imports have done enough.

[ He gestured, case in point, at the moon, which was just visible from where they stood. Nobody had every quite gotten around to undoing how it had been defaced.

Nelson was taking a remarkably long time with that food. It was getting to the point that he'd probably go over and make sure he hadn't fallen unconscious in a casserole or something, once he'd finished his cigarette. ]

[ Luckily (or unluckily?), it's about that time Nelson finally reappears from the kitchen, taking a couple of trips out instead of trying to juggle several plates. He weaves out and sets Maskin and Bradbury's plates and their salad dishes on the table by the couch before he goes back in to get his own food. He's particularly smug about getting it all done since he assumes they were both waiting for him to fall asleep in there or something. ]

Sorry that took so long, gentlemen. Everything should be ready now; can I get either of you any wine? [ After he puts down his own food he's already gone to pour himself a glass, although it's not a big one. He glances at them, wondering if he'd missed anything interesting after he'd had to break from eavesdropping their conversation. He looks at Bradbury in particular a little sadly before sitting down. ] There's two kinds of meat. You can help yourself. And um, more food in the kitchen if anyone's still hungry... there's plenty...

[ He sips his wine a little idly. ]

I'm not interrupting, I hope?

Oh no, that looks fine, Nelson. Thanks.

[ He flicks the cigarette out the window, pulling away. Fuck the anti-littering, Disneyfication of the City. He worked hard to make sure that people still had the right to smoke, and as soon as he was out, there it went.

Go figure, just like the ashes that sparked and died, so went all of his hard work. Worthless. He hadn't gone high enough, he hadn't been able to go as high as he'd needed to.

As a natural citizen of this world, it was different.

He turned to the food, giving it a look, well, it didn't look too terrible. (He had yet to eat it.) ]

Pulled out all of the stops for a couple of guests, didn't you?

Hey, I'm not gonna complain about free food. [ Bradbury was quick to interject. He was closer to done with his cigarette, but he stubbed it out on the side of the building before he flicked it away. Stepping over to the table, he dropped comfortably into the far seat, nodding to them both before he sized up the food, less with trepidation and more like he was deciding where to begin.

If he noticed anything off about the presentation, he didn't say, but he was quick to help himself anyway, the food piled on his plate looking a bit like he intended to make up for not eating for the past year, and then some. ]

Didn't get a chance to grab any lunch, so... [ He paused, then shrugged, giving Nelson something closer to a genuine grin, crooked though it was. ]

Thanks, Nelson. It looks good.

[ Nelson beams slightly, satisfied that they seem pleased with efforts. He doesn't really ever get the chance to cook for anyone, so he wants to do a good job of it. Maybe they'll come back if it's good, after all. ]

It's the least I can do, I don't want to be a bad host. Um, you both know where the drinks are if you decide you want any. [ He smiles and holds up his wine glass, taking another small sip and crossing one leg over the other. ] So, now that we're all good friends, [ It's slightly facetious, of course. ] I hope life hasn't been treating either of you too poorly lately. I know I -- well, Mr. Maskin and I spoke a little on our way over here, we're on a similar page, I think... I haven't read the book all the way through yet, though I will.

[ He cuts into his meat a little, realizing he's doing that thing again where he Talks Too Much. ]

... But I haven't seen you in years, Bradbury. How did--

[ Stares at the bandages. Stares. ]

How... are... you?

[ Same page, right. He nodded at Nelson, even while he served a little of the food. He wasn't much of an eater, but maybe it was just that he'd eaten earlier.

It was a better excuse than the fact that he really just didn't eat that much. He'd just finished, but the spoon fell a bit harder into the salad bowl than he'd been expecting at the question.

Instead of offering an explanation, since apparently he'd been the fucking cause of the injury, he got up, to get a drink.

That seemed like a much better course of action than just sitting there and looking mildly guilty. ]

[ Bradbury had not gotten much better at lying over the years, but he was much better at keeping his expression neutral. He also, really, didn't look at Maskin as he stood up. ]

Same as everyone else, I guess. Could be a hell of a lot better. Just glad I'm not any worse. [ He raised his good shoulder in a light shrug. Nelson may be staring at his bandages, but he pretended he hadn't noticed the aborted question, just giving him a mild smile. ]

I've been out of the country. Picking up work along the coast, mostly, on freighters-- you know how it is. People are shorthanded, and they don't ask too many questions. Hadn't really planned on ending up back here, except we had to do some emergency repairs, so I guess I'm on shore leave, for now.

[ he paused. ]

It's good to see you. [ Simple, and straightforward, as heartfelt as anything he'd ever said.

What he really meant was, it was good to see him alive. It was more than he could say of other people. Sobering a little at the thought, he dug a fork into a slice of meat and brought it up to his mouth.

Stopping mid-chew and gently twitching when the taste actually registered. ]

Edited (EDITS THIS A MILLION TIMES) 2013-03-07 07:57 (UTC)

Open Post 002

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