multiversallogs | i understand how riots start. i just don't understand why they ever stop.

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i understand how riots start. i just don't understand why they ever stop.

Who: Ilde, Remy and Erik
What: Erik needs 'reading material', and also a beer. Remy and Ilde are here to help.
Where: A riverside restaurant and bar of Remy's choosing.
When: After this log and this post.
Notes: I'M SORRY I'M ALL OVER THE LOG COMM >_>
Warnings: Mentions of blood and sex.

While Ivan may ordinarily be a light sleeper, the intoxicating nature of Ilde's blood tends to knock him out like the dead (so to speak--) and when she disentangles herself to pack up her sealed bag for the water, he doesn't stir. The folders go into the bag first, followed by clothes she won't have trouble pulling on by the river, a pair of shoes and her purse. She leaves it open, sitting on the end of her bed in Ivan's shirt to call Remy and Erik both before she leaves (letting Erik know she's on her way, letting Remy know she had copies handy and she'll bring Erik to the bar) and before she drops the CiD in with everything else and seals the bag. There's something extremely useful about having something she can take into the water with her, and knowing her luck one of these days it's going to get broken, but until then...

Ivan- I've got something to do tonight. I'll be back before morning. If Angus gets in again, just put him out.

Once she's refastened the bracelet she was wearing earlier, she slings the strap of her bag across her body so it'll rest against the back of her hip when she hits the water and lets herself out of the villa to go down to the river. It's familiar territory, by now, and she changes form mid-motion, diving deep down where she knows it best. She has her own landmarks to follow - rivermarks, if you will - and getting to Brock Marsh isn't terribly complicated.

Surfacing when she reaches the bridge, she lingers in the water for a short while, just watching.

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At Ilde's summary, Remy throws his head back and laughs, real and full and jovial, because that's just the kind of guy he is, and the kind of shit he finds funny. The timing is incredible, too, because the one harried waiter shows up just in time to catch that burst of laughter. Still chuckling, Remy puts in for a pitcher of whatever (and glasses), a plate of chips (fries) and a Shirley Temple (with lots of cherries).

When they're alone again: "Bio-kinetic energy manipulation. Sometimes fire happens in the resulting transference combustion, but it ain't a requirement or a product as a rule."

So he's a walking bomb, yeah.

Edited 2011-10-22 07:48 (UTC)

All right. He kind of likes these people.

In lieu of some superlative or other, Erik answers with a few appreciative nods, and for a short while continues to look at Remy, who will doubtless be totally comforted by the inscrutable nature of this gaze, the minute flicks of his eyes, their glacier blue lit to glow only momentarily by this perfect angle.

He then turns to Ilde, and smiles, perhaps a little more pleasantly than before. "Did you." And before another slow drag, "Just the one?" He's teasing. Probably.

"To start." ...that's not a joke, although it's hard to tell from the sweet way she delivers it- maybe she's just playing, she's never been one to play nice. (Just because she's playing doesn't mean she wouldn't like to wreck significant parts of the city, it just means it'd make her smile.)

She slides her bag toward him with the pointed toe of the high heel she's wearing, saying, "The folders are for you. That's where we got them."

Not that she has strong feelings about the subject, or anything.

"It was practically coming down anyway," he says, voice casual as he leans back in his chair. ... It was sort of coming down anyway, yes, but the destruction was pretty damn vindictive on their part. (And it had felt good to get that energy out. Fuck. It's been ages.)

Remy doesn't say anything about the files. He knows what's in them; instead he watches Erik. He's been watching Erik the whole time (in his own way) but for a moment it's a little more obvious. He wonders, when the other man looks at him, what he's looking for. It could be any vast number of things, really.

Any number of things, yes; he is prepared to explain approximately zero of them.

Ordinarily, these files would be transferred neatly to Erik's own hard leather briefcase, but it was left behind on Earth and out of a sort of pointless defiance he has yet to replace it with a new one. He liked that briefcase. Why couldn't the city have sent it with him instead of the stupid helmet? God only knows where that came from. (It's in his closet right now. Waiting.) ...Anyway, he'll have to carry the folders just as they are, and although he's not about to whip them out in front of all and sundry he does give them a look down where they sit. And since Ilde's leg is so conveniently there, his gaze may follow it on its way back up. Briefly. After the quickest glance to her eyes, as if to acknowledge that yes he is in fact terrible, he settles back.

"Well, I'm sure there are more than a few derelict buildings in this city." He is both willing and very able to tear shit down. "I'll take a look. Is this all of it?"

A little blood presses her trouser-leg to the inside of her thigh just above the knee, and that would be what she was talking about when she said Ivan is a sleepy drunk. (She cleaned it up before she left, but she wasn't putting a bandaid on when she knew she was about to jump into the river, particularly not when the water aids her healing.)

"Copies," she says, smiling back, but leaves it at that as their drinks (and chips) arrive. Her Shirley Temple looks only slightly out of place with the pitcher of beer, and she pops a cherry in her mouth as the waiter sets everything down and excuses himself again, leaving them to it. In his wake, she adds to Remy, "I told you I gave copies to Ivan, too. He's upset about the blood."

'Upset'.

Then, to Erik, "It's everything that was there. They must've taken things when they left."

Remy pours himself a beer and offers a quiet cheers - look, he likes drinking, even if it takes twice his body weight of anything to get him properly drunk - taking a drink and leaning his elbows on the table before contributing to anything.

(He thinks of Rogue.)

"Lotta people upset about the blood." He sharpens the tip of his cigarette on the edge of their ash tray, and for all the world sounds as easy-going as he did before the segue. "That was some well done terrorism. Got a lot of dominoes knocked over real fast."

He takes another drag of his cigarette and blows out curls of smoke over their heads.

"I know a guy who's got documents pulled outta one of the other houses - rest of 'em are empty, either they were like that or somebody who ain't talkin' pulled 'em all out. More of the same, plus books about one of the local boogeymen myths. The Baker. And a partial list of names and CiD numbers from old cohorts. Said they couldn't find none of 'em."

He, too, raises a glass filled from the pitcher, evidently trusting Remy not to have chosen something terrible. (He doesn't seem like a terrible-beer kind of guy, at least, so that's a bonus point.)

"If there's any chance your fellow might share copies of those as well, I'll take them."

He does like to read. And thankfully, he is content to receive copies. Although he wasn't entirely forthcoming about his motives during the network broadcast, Erik's intent is not to monopolize the Candlelighters in any respect. He considers it only a pet project of sorts—an issue very close to his heart, surely, but a distant second to getting the hell out of here, only something else to work toward in the meantime. (This may change once he learns more of what his alternate-fellows know to be true, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.)

"It's appalling," he says, and clarifies as his glass touches down, "the blood. Targeting those who strive specifically to avoid preying upon others. You have to wonder if the motive behind it wasn't more complex than anyone's cared to assume so far."

"It has to be," Ilde says, quietly, putting another cherry between her teeth and rolling it around for a moment before she bites through. "Look at their tactics-- look what they did. Starving predators. Don't tell me anyone thinks that's about concern for safety. Someone lit a match. Someone did that knowingly."

...she has a lot of feelings about this, apparently; on the one hand, it frankly irritates her to be put in the position of defending the generally indefensible, and on the other, she has a bad habit of collecting vampires lately and the issue is unavoidably close to her own life. Irritatingly. That distant look (absent, like she's carefully checking out of something that might bother her) she was wearing earlier is back, so perhaps whatever's fussing her isn't so unrelated.

"So who benefits? What weren't we looking at?" A shrug.

(Once, Remy went on a two-day bender with Wolverine, and the both of them actually managed to get pretty smashed. He had the worst addiction to Canadian beer for months after.)

"Despite all the lead up," and he speaks on the slower side here, reflective, "It don't feel like a political statement to me. Nobody took credit. Right?" He looks at Erik and Ilde both, like, Did I miss something that obvious? He doesn't think so. "It's vicious but it ain't targeted at vampires. It's targeted at everybody. Grotesque - they used 'em as a weapon. Terrorists always take credit, no matter what it is. Anonymously, usually, some big collective message to spread out the blame, so they can hide behind a cause. And not a word out of 'em."

He takes another swallow of his beer, shakes his head. "Somethin's weird about it."

The way he speaks of these attacks - it's not flippant or callous; there's compassion, but his anger is old. Jaded. This is not the first time he's sat somewhere and pulled apart the threads of something blood-soaked and hateful.

"They could be waiting." This he says while flicking ash from his cigarette, just now taking on the air of a man genuinely engaged in conversation, however subdued it may be. "Either way, I'm not convinced that it wasn't done primarily as a means of decimating the city's population of cruorvores." He learned not to use the term man-eater very quickly, courtesy of Mafaton. "Whoever's responsible must've known they would end up being exterminated."

With a nod to Ilde, "And who benefits? Depends on who you are... some might say everyone does. Fewer predators to worry about." He does a sort of shrug here, mostly with his hands, then rests his elbows on the table, still trailing a little smoke with each gesture. "The remaining cruorvores will certainly benefit from reduced competition, once they've recovered, but that seems like too convenient an answer to me."

Ilde shakes her head, quickly. "Not convenient. You can kill cruorvores with the right kind of blood--" she sounds awfully familiar with that, which may or may not be interesting, "--but they didn't do that, they took their control away. Piss poor control already, at the edge of desperation."

If decimating cruorvores was the primary goal, even considering the population drop, it was an unnecessarily convoluted plan that put most of the rest of the city at risk. It doesn't sound right to her, somehow.

"If you wanted to make life harder for xenians, obvious predators are like a gateway drug for bigots. I think."

"Whomever infected the blood supply coulda just poisoned 'em," he agrees. "It's overkill. You do that when you're so mad you lose control, or if you're doin' a fan dance. No?"

And it was an awfully precise operation to be someone furious beyond reason. Remy is skeptical - annoyed, yes, but still skeptical. (It is interesting, and not altogether surprising, to watch what details Erik digs his heels in over.)

His voice is dry when he continues, "Not that terrorist bigots ain't capable of multi-tasking." Blow away a huge chunk of the cruorvore population and make a smoke screen for whatever your real purpose is? Fantastic! "Efficiency at it's worst."

When he exhales this last time, it's done quickly, just to make room for his reply. ...He sure burned through that thing, didn't he. It can linger between his fingers for a moment, though, as sort of a prop while he points at the two of them.

"That's precisely what I mean. Look at all they've accomplished with this one stroke—that period of unease caused by the shortage was the perfect lead-in to the riots. If the infection had come out of nowhere it would've been a shock, but with all that time for unease to fester, and for the propaganda to be distributed, it was definitely set up to linger. And now, not only is there a palpable sense of fear and anger on both sides of it, but a significant number of those who pose a serious physical threat to those involved in the anti-xenian movement are no longer a factor."

Consider it a form a punctuation when he finally presses the cigarette butt into...hopefully an ashtray, but if not, whatever's handy will do. Perhaps a spoon.

"It'll only get worse from here."

"People are arseholes," she observes, with a bare little sigh, and she might mean humans but she's always reminding herself that they're not all like that. They're not all just waiting to put her in a cage. (She knows this when the decent sorts are around; it's harder to remember when they're not.) "Of course it gets worse."

There's no use asking when she became such a cynic; anyone paying attention already knows.

"It's already worse," he deadpans, and stubs out his own cigarette before tossing his pack in the center of the table - go for it, y'all. "It always is."

Beneath the surface.

Remy refills his beer, offers to do the same for Erik if he likes. (He's gonna scream when he gets home - no, he's not. He's just going to laugh, and lay his head in Wanda's lap and try not to have a goddamn migraine.)

"So. We can try an' figure out what they're gonna do next. We can try an' figure out what they're really doing. We can try an' find them, ask very politely what they're doing, and blow up the rest of their fuckin' buildings - or." He takes a drink. "We can look into all of those things, pending we network this properly."

Erik completely approves of both their summations—he accepts a refill, too, and lifts his glass briefly in thanks. With any luck, he'll actually catch a few hours of sleep before his shift begins tomorrow.
Yes, he has a day job. Right now they're laying train tracks. Imagine it. (He's being paid to hone his skills, basically.)

"Absolutely. Our terrorist friends aren't the only arseholes capable of multitasking." Gosh. Ilde's a bad influence, clearly.

"I like all of the above," the theoretical bad influence in question observes, reflectively, fidgeting with her cigarette. Sonja's working on something of her own with regard to the Candlelighters, she's vaguely aware; she doesn't have details and it doesn't bother her when it's Sonja. (At the end of the day, no matter how much she likes anyone else in the city, Ilde'll do what she tells her to do. Thus far, there hasn't been a conflict.)

Though she's considering asking for a definition of 'networking properly', a thought diverts her and she says, "Someone was speculating that the blood was vampire politics. Jockeying for position. I don't think that fits, but if part of anyone's goal was removing threats, I think it was a miscalculation. The stronger ones will have survived. Annoyed."

She's just saying. ...it could be useful.

Well we can't have too much honing going on here, so drink up, dude.

"See," he leans against one elbow on the arm of his chair, and smiles at Ilde. "That's the kind of networking I'm takin' about. Annoyed vampires sound like people we need to know. So everybody go make some friends, no?"

This is a very shallow, but nonetheless accurate, peek into how Remy gets shit done in Baedal. Mixing and shifting people and information like cards, stacking the deck the whole way.

He could use this as an opportunity to say that he's a step ahead of this word of encouragement, but it seems unnecessary—that and Njoki would no doubt prefer to be left unmentioned. So, instead: beer, and agreeable nodding. It's been a while since he raised his drink to anyone without intending to murder them, honestly—besides Charles, anyway—and he takes a moment to reflect on this as he swallows. Turning the glass in his hand, watching the foam sliding down. The ghost of a crooked smile lingering. That's...probably best left unmentioned, too.

"Who else is working on this?" With us, he means.

Edited 2011-10-24 21:13 (UTC)

"Directly?" Ilde shrugs, glancing at Remy, thinking momentarily about making friends and the various ways in Baedal that she acquires her own information. After a beat, "Less than indirectly, I think. Maybe I'll go talk to Ivan's new friend with him, if I can swing it."

She seems confident that she can, and she's probably right. How that'll actually go is anyone's guess at this point, but it's too interesting not to pursue and if it could be helpful, later...well, that would be something.

"What the hell does directly mean?" Haw haw, that's only funny to Ilde... and not actually very funny at all, Gambit. He just flashes her a smile, and then nods about Ivan and whomever the new friend is; presumably somebody of the undead variety.

"I got some people." He lights another cigarette. "Wanda's the brains of my operation, obviously, but she don't do too much fieldwork."

He's just going along with the assumption Erik knows, really. They live together with her children, it's not at all a secret, and the tone of voice in which he delivers that potential nervous sledgehammer is both familiar and steadily affectionate. Heedless, he carries on.

"I figure John'll be in. Clarice, too, even if she hates my ass. There's a guy over up by the north border who's been doggin' me for a conversation, I gotta go see what's up with that."

Those pale eyes of his flick between Remy and Ilde maybe twice, as though this will help him understand whatever inside joke they've got going, there. In any case, That Which Shall Not Be Named is known to him, and by the way he looks at Remy after the mention of Wanda's name—obliquely, relaxed, measuring—it's likely he is still deciding how he feels about it. There's no sense of bristling, anyway. (If there were, would he even be here?)

He's considering lighting up again, himself, but sticks to the beer instead. "I've spoken with John and Clarice; they seem interested. Not about this, per se, but in general." In him, he means.

Remy's joke makes her laugh, quietly, terrible as it is - she really does enjoy her James Bond routine, she'll continue volunteering to do more of it - but she says, "I think mostly the vampires will be interested so far as what affects vampires. It's like that in New York, too; it isn't our monstrous world that bothers them, they just don't like to be prey as well." Her tone is tolerant, almost indulgent, like she's just talking about bad puppies that nevertheless deserve a biscuit.

"They're prone to that." Being interested in Erik? ... Apparently. But he sounds so effortlessly business as usual about it that it's hard to tell. He doesn't mind cultivating the appearance that he's the man with all the answers, anyway, and he doesn't seem inclined to give the other man any particular Looks about the subject of himself and Wanda. There are bigger, badder parental units back at home to really worry about, where that's concerned.

(One time he got into a fist fight with Mystique on the lawn of the Xavier Institute For Higher Learning. True story.)

"The ones I grew up with tended to be a little better adjusted," he says, chuckling a little. The vampires at home for him are familiar faces, at least in New Orleans. Past that, they get a little weird, but everybody's pretty used to the fact that vampires are not the heaviest hitters by far.

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/cough

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