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LUX may have only been in the East Village legally for a few months at most. Musicians still flock to it, in place of better known halls in Greenwich Village. Powerbrokers like it here too, the ask few questions attitude welcome for business. Of course the tacit understanding of neutral ground is simple; violate the peace, and likely disappear. No one is permitted to bother the performers either, and the decadent purring of soul slashed through the British Invasion that's still gathering steam holds the patrons in thrall. There is no kind of crowd, even when the place is hopping. Horseshoe booths and a long bar accommodate them all, the mezzanine above another mysterious realm.
A black man, accompanied by a guitar and two singers. The quartet purrs through their riffs, and the drenched soul is most definitely inspired by Motown with an addition. Think the Temptations because they are the Temptations, a man down.
Lucifer Morningstar has no doubt the irony of this. It's given him a packed house and he lounges in a small booth, the only one not occupied to capacity. A dusky-skinned woman who can glare daggers manages the bar, proving the bartender has other diversions. Diversions that don't include women, but waiting rather like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
*
Maximus has tried the club a time or two. He ate one dessert. He's a rebel. he plays by enough of the rules to remain, but he rather confidently marches to his own beat, which changes all the time. If he doesn't feel like it, he cannot be persueded. If he does, nothing can stop him. Tonight, he is dressed strangely. Maybe not the strangest, but definitely strange. He is wearing black boots and metallic leggings that come up to tight, black shorts. The shirt he is wearing is sheer, so that underneath it can be seen a criss-cross of straps making an X over his chest. Over all this is a long, black coat, with broad white trim and a high collar which is standing straight up. His hair is slicked back tightly, though it has enough ripple in it that its probably curly, normally. His eyes are lined in black, and so are his lips. Not for one instant does he seem self-conscious about it.
Maximus has arrived. First stop…taking someone else's drink from them, to which he offers a sanguine smile and a little mental nudge, before wandering through the soul-infused decadence until he's quite near to the small booth. "Persephone? No. Penny? No. I /swear/ it began with 'P'…" he addresses Lucifer.
*
A dessert on the menu because of his choices, no less. Surely that kind of credit gets him through the door. Staff here is mixed gender, mixed race, a cause for shock and pearl-clutching among more conservative neighbours. If they're conservative they should not be in East Village.
The man lounges in pants apparently made from pearl and moonlight given their spotless pallor, and a bomber jacket eased back from his shirtless chest. For reasons of his own, the lights in the place are bedimmed and focused on the band playing at the piano in the middle of the club, and yet he damn well looks like a bored sculpture stepped out of Versailles or the Kunsthistoriches Museum or the Louvre. Probably worse, in a devastating way. Stone can be imperfect. Muscles can be guessed by a sculptor, but he was made by first and best of them. A cigarette burns away in the ashtray carved from basalt at his table, the cherry ember giving a curl of smoke into the air. A studied look passes through those who transmute from submarine silhouettes painted against in the rippling green curtain of glass into flesh and blood when they descend the stairs. Each person receives the same smoky, calculated appraisal. That's what it is, no hiding it. Measured regard. Dismissal for most. The interesting ones get set upon by one of the servers by silent signals. In one's very long life, there must be diversions. The glass stolen is replaced mere moments later by a wingwoman.
"Eosforo," he answers Maximus. His boots anchor on the leather surface, indenting the implied softness. "Or Eosphoros, though it takes a Greek to do it just right. Persephone slays the light. I bring it."
*
"Lightbringer? It sounds like one of your desserts. Eosphoros. I am Maximus. It takes nothing to get that right, so I have particular judgement for those who fail and call me Max, or Maxi, or…other things." Maximus lofts a black brow and gives the tempter a look up and down. "Where have /you/ been for the past three months?" He sips the stolen drink and then slides his butt and his coat into the opposite side of the booth. "Or…actually, you might not exist at all. Fa-la-la…I have imagined very little better."
*
The narrowing of his eyes might hold an implicit threat. One predator surely recognizes another. Dawn breaks on Lucian's measured reserve, and the ghost of a smirk widens ever so slightly. He reaches for the cigarette, pinching the filter in two long fingers. Soul music urged up the pentatonic scale and guided by a human chorus pays the dues for the night, and he brings the cancer-stick to his mouth. "The little pleasures." A slight nod acknowledges wherever he likes, and he's not moving his dark boots in their liquid black, almost chromed finish, from the edge of the booth. "Maximus. Maximus Something-or-Other." The cigarette is no impediment to having a proper conversation. "Lucian Eosforo." See how nicely that rolls off the tongue. It gains a little flourish, more Italian than French, possibly either.
"It happens I do exist. So do you, for that matter. Despite opinions to the contrary, surely." Black lipstick doesn't faze him, but the burning intensity of his gaze wanders where it will, and he doesn't give a damn what Maximus thinks about that, either.
*
Maximus cannot partake of the death stick, a hand in refusal and sitting far enough away that its not wafting directly in his face. "Ahhh /Lucian/…that is more fitting. Boltagon is my last…for what it is worth in this country." He lifts a hand casually into the air. He brings the other up to his dark lips and clears his throat against it. "It is better to be hated than to be unnoticed. I heard someone say that. In reference to…killers, I believe. But, it applies in other ways. Feeling like you do not exist…leads to madness."
*
Point acknowledged, curiosity founded. Lucian pinches the end out between his thumb and index finger, crushing the cherry into nothing. A few flecks of ash go tumbling into the basalt basin, and then the straight length of paper wrapped around exotic tobacco follows. He blots the soot away on a pristine napkin. "Stan Kenton, in an approximation of Andre Gide. Fascinating pianist." He flashes a look briefly to the grand piano standing in the middle of the floor, sunken so every element focuses upon that glossy Steinway and not the bar where so often he inhabits his own little realm. "Have you felt you were invisible, Mr. Boltagon?" A gesture dismisses one of the servers coming by with another round of drinks, and her path smoothly alters to head somewhere else.
*
"Perhaps once, but…not since. If I am ignored it is my desire. I notice you seem a contradiction. WHo could help but to notice you…and yet, you are not exactly going out of your way. There are people noticing you though." Maximus looks from Lucian back out to the throng. "That one." He points to a server. "That one." He points to a subtle guard. "Others. This is…ahhh, this is like the helm of a ship. Ahh, /Lucian/, tell me how to control them. What is the motion?"
*
"I assure you, Mr. Boltagon, attention comes when I want it and leaves when I don't." He is deprived of his cigarette, no great loss. The basking recline gives Lucian an air of total indolence, and when he picks up his glass of some herbal liqueur, a potion whipped up for his own amusement, he stares into its heart for a moment. The cut facets at the bottom give passable reflective surfaces for a mirror. Enough to do for checking the accuracy. "Useful filter, isn't it? Seeing who is not moved by the music or their wine or cake. More for the flesh and the company." Good for business. He settles into his moody shadows slashed by a bar of light from an overhead light somewhere, the dim bulb burning copper. The smirk is back, finer. "It can't be taught. They do as they want."
*
"Really." Maximus answers back with a glint in his eyes. He stands up from the booth, then. "Do you want to bet on that? I could use a good wager." Though he has no idea that he's literally trying to make a deal with the devil. The oddly dressed man stands there, looking down at the other, arrogant, confident, meddlesome.
*
"Really." Lucian rolls his head to his left shoulder, stretching the tendons in his neck. A rotation shifts to the other side, and the faint glimpse of his teeth appear through the crack in his smile. "Does this look like a casino?" Elbow lands atop the table, and he leans in so slightly while reconfiguring his position. At its base level, it's the dead truth. Slouching out from Babylon, the bartender rests his weight on his side and drags his feet off the leather seat, giving Maximus a little room. "A simple rule, the help at the bar is always off-limits. Business is not to be interrupted." A knowing nod indicates the dusky-skinned woman. "Besides, she would have your head and likely little I could do to stop her. You've been forewarned." Throwing back the concoction in his glass is effortless. Liquid vigorously swirls and then crashes against his mouth, flames licking down his throat. "Name your stakes. Let's see if it's too rich for my blood."
Unfair, when he technically hasn't any.
*
Maximus considers the wager, the man, the rules and his own hubris before he very boldly declares, "If I can conduct them, then you sponsor an event in my honor. If I cannot do it, then I will bring two highly public figures of your choice here, or have them endorse your place in a public place."
*
Hubris. Takes one who embodies the sin to know one. Inclined where before he reclined lazily, Lucian considers the words of his guest. "I acknowledge your terms. Though if you can conduct me, you gain all of that. I'll throw in the performance to boot so I can witness your triumph firsthand," he states with a slow, moderated degree of consideration. Tossing back the contents of the tumbler in one gulp, whatever is left will be for the history books. His hand is extended, presumably to shake on it. "Gentlemen's arrangements. Here? Or would elsewhere be best?"
*
And in comes Lamont. In his usual dark vest, dark pants, pale shirt. He settles on a stool at the end of the bar, and fishes that beautiful pewter and enamel cigarette case out of his vest pocket, along with its companion lighter. Drink this time's a vodka gimlet.
*
Maximus reaches out his hand to shake Lucian's. "Oh…I am going to demonstrate this right now." The man smiles slyly and then turns around, lifting his hands in the air like the conductor of an orchestra. Then he reaches out his mind-powers to try to grasp the various workers, while his hands are lifted up, though he doesn't make them do anything. He's just seeing if he can.
*
"Very well." Lucian leans back against the white leather padding of the horseshoe booth. The night's entertainment are a little Motown group blending soul and rock overtones into a smooth serenade the building picks up beautifully. Its acoustics shouldn't work so well with disrupting edison bulbs on the ceiling and the secretive layers of the mezzanine, and they do. The Temptations sing their tales of love and heartbreak and desire, accompanied by the purring guitars and that unearthly gorgeous Steinway in the middle of the central stage the entire building rotates around.
Handsome devil that he is, bare-chested and a total louche, the blond man rests his arm against the back of the the booth. He gestures, a come-hither call to fortune.
At the bar is a dusky-skinned woman possibly able to rip apart bare steel with her teeth. She doesn't smile and she is beyond efficient at pouring drinks, the sort of restrained violence and civility Athena supposedly had. She pours Lamont his drink, no comment given. And she gives Lucian a /look/, one of those unimpressed Looks with a capital L. The man almost yawns. "You're forgetting me, Mr. Boltagon."
*
"Mmmm…I am concentrating…" Maximus wiggles his fingers a little. And then he conducts a downbeat, then sweeps his hands out to the sides. The mortals his mind has curled around, the waiters, the servers, the guard, simultaneously move a step to the left, then jump to the right, then spin as he brings his hands in for the downbeat of the 3/4 piece the band is playing. He does not touch the band…since doing so would wreck the music.
*
And all of that has Lamont tensing. He knows manipulation when he sees it. His expression's still impassive, but now his gaze is darting to Lucian, as if to gauge the proprietor's reaction…or culpability.
*
Indeed, the Temptations wouldn't appreciate that sort of interference, even if they knew what they were considering. The tumble of warm notes radiates around them and the endless fascination of a crowd eager to sink into the inviting, mellow notes. Easy for a man to lose his thoughts to the grooving that takes place here and there, though the staff on the upper level aren't visible to see if they move. Lucian doesn't even arch an eyebrow. His expression is, if anything, expectant.
*
Maximus doesn't disrupt the entire flow of the evening, releasing them slowly, one by one, to their tasks, pinching off the end of the demonstration. He looks over his shoulder, smiling slyly to Lucian. "Come now…you are so…sulky…because I have left you out? Mmm?" He turns to face the man with the bare chest. Lamont can clearly see Maximus, who is wearing black boots and metallic leggings that come up to tight, black shorts. The shirt he is wearing is sheer, so that underneath it can be seen a criss-cross of straps making an X over his chest. Over all this is a long, black coat, with broad white trim and a high collar which is standing straight up. His hair is slicked back tightly, though it has enough ripple in it that its probably curly, normally. His eyes are lined in black, and so are his lips. Not for one instant does he seem self-conscious about it.
Lamont could also sense that the energy between the two men facing each other is dangerous. Not magnetic, not /attraction/ or the charm of one personality with another, no. This is something…potentially, exponentially, developing into a storm. Its the same sensation of two Silverbacks in the same room. But Maximus flirts with it anyway, because he's fucking crazy. "You want me to try…" Steel eyes rake up and down, pondering his risks…and not super caring about them.
*
"That was part of the agreement, Mr. Boltagon. My terms thus," Lucian replies in a dry, somewhat elemental amusement. He chooses to sit a little straighter only to amend the look from the bartender, who could well be planning the Third World War. Not that some James Buchanan isn't doing that for himself. "Clearly you're enjoying yourself and who am I to interrupt that? Only to remind."
*
And without really thinking about it, Lamont's drawing that semi-invisibility around himself. Not the full kind that causes gasps of startlement in mere mortals when he drops it, the full on erasure of people's perceptions of him. No, it's the 'Not worthy of notice' trick - the man at the bar is nothing exceptionable, no one worthy of memory. Just some quiet middle-aged man that doesn't stick out. It'll affect neither of the two, and he's deliberately trying to not eavesdrop, focussing on his drink. He can hardly help what comes in of its own, though.
*
Maximus can control mere mortals pretty well, unless they have some special abilities to resist it, but he's capable of catching bigger fish. In order to do that, though, his eyes do glow a white-blue. Not overly bright, but ringed around the edges with it. It is not a communication, but rather the attempt to 'take the helm'. He cannot see memories, or plant dreams, just become a puppeteer. The attempt against Lucian is…vigorous, anticipating that the man has protections that he will have to beat down with his own will.
*
ROLL: Lucian +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 57
*
Maximus is well and likely a great power to bear down on lesser fish in his mental net. Lucian is the firefly, thoughts steady and bright, but very small in the void of space around him. Some egos are sturgeon and others are minnows, and he falls somewhere on the smaller end of things. Capturing him just means catching him in the great astral space where psychic dominance wraps around victims and holds them fast. Catching him? That should be easy. It really should…
Except the Inhuman prince might realize the astral voidspace, the usual backdrop around living beings he's extending himself into, is all one presence. It isn't background noise. It's all Lucian, with a surface as smooth as black glass, as limitless as the night sky. And he gives that knowing smile as the Inhuman's probing gift turns back on its maker. "Oh, that was good. Now to make it worth your while."
*
One of his besetting sins is curiosity. And of course Lamont's paying attention. Something's going on there….and unwisely, he's reaching to try and skim Maximus's thoughts. Gaze still fixed on the depths of his drink, hand lying lazily over his cigarette case. Still hasn't lit up.
*
There is simply too much 'presence' for Maximus to take over. Its like if he got into a giant boat and tried to pilot that, only to find out that there were 800 buttons needed to operate it. And while he's working on figuring that out, he's suddenly snapped out of the boat entirely and instead, his own self is open to being controlled. THAT, he does manage to 'shut down' right away. He takes a step back and he hisses at Lucian, ducking his chin down and curling his lips. "Your establishment is basic…" he pointlessly insults, maybe trying to goad, or just…get in a blow against a superior opponent.
Lamont on the other hand, skimming Maximus' thoughts? He is treated to a glimpse of a mind that is /unwell/. There appears to be things very wrong in there. Though inhumanly brilliant, nothing is settled in the right spots, like there were an earthquake in his mind and shook everything around, and then it healed up like that. Likely, Maximus needs to be wrapped up in a straightjacket and kept in a rubber room. Despotic, powerful, defensive, perverse, he is a cocktail of trouble.
But boy does he know how to dress.
*
….well, that's just not right. Lamont's caught in earnest. And he can feel, for a moment, that openness to being controlled. Then he's prying at it, even though the door is shut. Can he calm that tempestuous nature, before something really awful happens. The Shadow's no stranger to coercing weaker minds, though he's vastly out of his league with either of these two.
*
Maximus seems to suddenly know /exactly/ where Lamont is. Knowing there's a mind there, poking at his own, has him looking right at the other man. "And what are you doing? Trying to calm the king? After his…failure? Are you laughing, ha. ha. HA? Finding it funny? Well…have a laugh at this." He aims in Lamont's direction, looking to see what the man may be holding. His cheeks are reddened, as well as his neck.
*
He withdraws….Maximus can feel that mental touch vanishing like smoke in the wind. But he doesn't look away, regarding Maximus with that cool, direct gaze. "Do I look like I'm laughing?" he demands, in that haughty drawl. Oh, Lamont. He never learns. But he withdraws his hand from the bar, leaving the cigarette case there….and carefully takes a drink, as if Maximus's annoyance were of no possible account.
*
Maximus tries to snap the drink from his hand and drop it on the ground, while he arches a black brow, petty and snotty, and stinging from Lucian's humiliation of him.
*
It….almost works. But then it slides off that force of will - this one's far more stubborn than most mortals. Perhaps Lamont senses the king's intent, for he lifts the glass in mocking salute, with a flash of brows, before he takes another sip.
*
Maximus is only provoked further by the continued besting happening. He lets out an uninteligible shout, then storms towards the door. They have indeed rid themselves of the wild Maximus infestation. Now he just needs to find some powerless whelp to take it all out on.