Sitting outside a bistro on a fine spring day, Lindon nurses along a cup of coffee. The remnants of a sandwich lie on a plate on the table. He is not living the relaxed, Bohemian life. His tall frame is practically folded into that small chair and his posture ramrod straight. He does his best to avoid watching people, but they're right there, damn it, walking by and being people.
*
Queens, not the average place for a bohemienne serving as the genius loci of the Village to be, has its charms. If one has a need for black tea thick enough to possibly be extracted from peat, rather than camellia leaves, Queens is the place to go. Immigrant communities scattered throughout its eclectic makeup call her to attend on the most diverse corner of the world. Thus might it be an incredibly strange assortment of objects in the bag over her wrist; a thermos has the specially gleaned tea. Another stop comes up, this time at a certain cafe to pick up some certain baked goods, already called ahead for. She has far too many different things to catch up on to chance they might not have what she's after. Thus does the redhead wrapped up in a green coat drift down the sidewalk, doing her best not to touch anyone or knock them with the paper bag. So far, so good.
*
Lindon can't help but watch the redhead as she goes by. He's trying not to, but she stands out the way a tiger lily does among roadside weeds. The parts of him that are still him immediately size up someone out of his league. He's about to go about his business when one of those tea packets falls out of her bag. Without thinking, he scoops it up, and he calls out, "Miss, you dropped this." There isn't a whole lot of tone in the words. Dead neutral. And too quiet, so he pipes up. "Miss!"
*
Whatever yardstick a man uses to measure whether someone fits his league or not, Scarlett is utterly oblivious to. Call it a curse of standing on the outside: the soul-thief doesn't have an advantage like that. Oblivious sometimes to the looks that flow after her, she does not overlook someone calling about a dropped object. That's easy enough to snare her attention with, and keeping it lies with the friendly gesture for all it comes with a total deadpan. Her dark braided hair slides off her shoulder as she turns, measuring up the fellow offering the tea bag in his palm. Nothing would indicate dismissal, but rather than peculiar split-second decision if he means her or someone else. "Pardon? Ah! A gentleman for rescuing something," she murmurs, dipping her head. "Thank you."
*
Lindon could be handsome if not for the starved look about him, the sunken eyes and ashen complexion. He's got the bone structure for good looks, and those brown eyes would be heartbreakers if they were soulful. His hands are slender, long-fingered, with a neat manicure. His hair, if it had a trim and maybe tidied up would be thick and lush. But instead, he looks depleted somehow and nearly spent. He smiles weakly, his heartrate increasing. He knows more than the human mind can safely hold and still never figured out how to talk to people. "Uh, sure. It's fine. I think you need it more than the ground."
*
On the other hand, the coming of spring gives the daughter of another season a blush of fine good health. Fair skin all but glows against the deep, lush hue of her hair and leaf-green eyes, and if everyone could pull off minidresses the way she does, the US would not be waiting another two years for the trend to take over these shores thanks to another kind of British Invasion. Scarlett flips over the teabag and tucks it back into the brown paper satchel it originally occupied, folding over the edges. "I would be terribly sad to lose it, as that is a gift for a friend. Though perhaps I might keep that one. Drinking something off the ground…" She shakes her head at the very notion of it, the violation of a cosmic principle of proper behaviour. "Sandwiches here any good?"
*
Lindon shrugs and says, "The boiling water would kill anything on it, except botuli… the sandwiches! Yes. They're pretty good." He glances at his mostly finished ham and swiss. "I would recommend them. The bread is from one of the better bakeries in Queens." He offers the lovely lady a fleeting smile, then he swallows. So much to talk about, and it's like her prettiness is some kind of spell that renders his words to stammering, "They come with chips they make here." He glances down at his hands, which have no idea what to do with themselves now that the tea has been delivered.
*
Suggesting a friend slurp down some dirty water potentially infested by an alien plague, and not worry, will never sit entirely right with Scarlett. She nonetheless has no intention of putting someone ill at ease, especially when it passes for a joke. The corner of her mouth lifts for a fractional smile, the moonbeam arc lasting for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Fresh bread is entirely the measure of a good sandwich. An essential foundation, and that recommends the place for me. Better than grabbing a few pastries from their case, at least." The waitress inside will no doubt have little reason to complain when the request for a pick-up comes through. It can wait a little. "Chips. Crispy potatoes, yes?" The accent is close enough cousin to English they wouldn't be allowed to marry in forty-seven states and most territories.
*
Lindon nods as he says, "Yes, not like what we call French fries." Because he knows the differences between English and American. Every little thing. He's about to expound on it, but experience has taught him there's a time and place. He snaps his mouth shut, sits up straighter, and says, "I could shove off if you want the table. I'm just finishing up my coffee anyway." Another one of those fleeting smiles, half-apologetic. This is him trying to forge new experiences to balance out the ones he's lost, taken from his mind by the weight of knowledge that sits like a cuckoo in his brain, pushing the other chicks out of the nest. New experiences, right. How does one do that? "I'm Lindon," he says abruptly.
*
French fries and chips, helpful. She can reach out for that familiar anchor and smiles. "Delicious meal, a sandwich and chips. No wonder the cafe appears so popular." Marking the changing clientele through the windows takes only a moment, and then her attention once more returns to the young man striving to make a point of polite conversation. Though his offer brings her eyebrows up several millimeters, head shaken before words touch her lips. "I could never, sir. Evicting you from your own seat as a paying customer? What would you think of me if I did? No, I could not send you off." Her bag is transferred into her other hand. "They have plenty of seats, and I am not in a hurry, all things said and done. Displacing another would be unladylike." So worries the bohemienne about the strangest of things. Her palm is lifted: "Scarlett. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. As the tree?"
*
"More or less," Lindon says with a weak smile. What's a stray 'e' or 'o' among birth certificates? "My mother was a botanist. Scarlett, that's a pretty name." He takes a drink of his tepid coffee to wet his suddenly dry mouth. "I wouldn't think badly of you. It's a good spot in the sun, very pleasant. Besides, it's not displacing me if it's an offer, but if you wanted to sit here, I wouldn't necessarily have to leave." This isn't going as terribly as he assumed it would. His shoulders stop hunching as he relaxes. "Lindon Mills," he says, "so it's kind of funny, because wood mills…"
*
Scarlett the Red, Lindon the Tree. Names and their etymology could be a fascinating discussion, not the least given the knowledge he conceals and the insight she so hungers for. A passion waiting: tap her into the universal source of wisdom and collective experience, and she might be a ferocious companion indeed. "I would think badly of me, however, and that would be enough to cast a pall over any conversation or lounging around." Gently dismissing the possibility, she shakes her head at the offer. "I would not be amiss to sitting with you, however, if you are fine with me ordering a cup of tea. The lime tree is a perfectly fine specimen in the forest, too. Lime, lind, it means flexible. Pliable, perhaps." The random facts one attains.
*
"That's also funny," Lindon says, though he doesn't laugh. Flexible, pliable. This thing inside him molds him like putty, reshaping his intellect every day. He sits up a little, shifting so his long legs aren't taking up all of the legroom under the table. "I could do with a cup of tea," he says, setting his now cool coffee aside. It's mostly empty anyway. "Anyway, I think it says about you that you're a nice person, if that's how you'd feel. I'd never ask anyone to leave. I'm kind of the leaver." He fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve. "So, your accent. Have you been here for awhile?"
*
Slender as the accent is, it permeates words and good manners that would be the prize of any young lady. As far as half the civilised world is concerned, a young woman of particular breeding ought to mind her Ps and Qs, behave, and not step beyond the boundaries created by well-meaning gentlemen. The same sort probably secretly harbour concerns that womankind ought not to be exposed to danger or harbour seditious notions in their pretty little heads, in which case, they've no idea they're dealing with a nearly indestructible creature, the Soul-Thief moving among them, impervious to such little troubles as calculating the consequences of public policy flaws or diplomatic spats with aliens, Latveria, and the Soviets.
For now? There is tea. There are possibly sandwiches, and taking a seat politely as she circles around it and sinks down to comfortably find a spot for herself. Knees together, her flaring skirt whispers around her as she settles down. A minidress makes these things hazardous. "I do not think I am especially funny, but I try. Ah, English?"
*
"My sense of humor isn't all that…" Lindon casts about for a word and settles on, "…great. But I try." He sweeps a lock of hair behind one ear, due to have it cut. "You're English. That's cool." He sits a little hunched over, trying to diminish his presence without thinking about it. One fingertip traces a line of condensation on the table.
His senses tell him she's not English. Rather, lightning quick deduction based on flows of information that flit by so fast he isn't cognizant of them. It feels almost psychic. He doesn't pursue his suspicions, though. Generally, if one harbors a secret, it's for a reason. "So this is small talk," he says with a quiet laugh. "I'm not good at any of this. What brings you to New York? Did I already ask that? I can't remember."
*
The trouble is, the answer is an answer. What is she? She could not tell him, even with a gun to her head. The broken and shattered pathways of Scarlett's being do not resolve that answer, and they do not Likewise provide insight for a man questing for answers. The sculpted contours of her accent are something akin to English, as much as they might be from Kent, they could be from Savannah, there are traces of American Northeast, Old Norse, and pieces between. Composites that do not make themselves clear. For a computer, she's passively irritating, the piece that will not fit.
The young woman dips her head in a nod, listening herself for cues. As someone who has met aliens, hidden races, interdimensional beings, it goes part and parcel with the whole diplomatic gig. "Yes, it is. You're doing quite well. A bit of give and take; find a topic of interest, encourage the other person to share a story. You're not from the city, then?" She pulls a napkin into her lap, a sensible precaution given the short dress and leggings. "I study at Columbia," she explains, dainty movements controlled, too much so. "And yourself?"
*
Lindon says a breathless, "Thanks," and ducks his head. He was shy before he became so detached from the rest of the world, perhaps unused to praise. "I'm from the Midwest," he says. "Kansas. It's where I went to college, too." He rubs the back of his neck. "Library sciences. I work at the Queens branch, mostly archiving." As they say, do what you know.
"What are you studying?" he asks, perking up a bit. Not many women attended college back home, or if they did, it was to meet a husband. A perfect waste of good minds.
*
Tea will eventually be ordered when the server comes around, a request for another sandwich added atop. Scarlett is more than content to offer that, the ease of her voice smooth and certain. "The Midwest to here, quite a long distance for you. Many people have been drawn to the Big Apple. Was yours school or work?"
Here's to the joys of stretching her feet out and putting her bag down. "Bachelor of Arts. Strongly diversified background, but I seem to be slanting towards international relations and politics. History and sociology were my key points of academic entry."
*
"Neither," Lindon says. "I just needed a change of pace. Small towns are hard to get lost in, and I wanted to be lost." He looks around the bustling street, and he smiles. "It's so easy to be anonymous here." He sighs, content with that state of things at least.
"That sounds like a good path," he says. "More relevant too in the future." He shakes his head. "This situation with the Soviets is rough. I don't think it's going to be solved with bluster, but by diplomacy."
*
The redheaded bohemienne shakes out her braids. "Oh yes. The prospect of being lost is sometimes a blessing in disguise. It's half the charm of Central Park, when not overrun by zombies, undead, angry witches or the usual sort of trouble. Criminal activity in the southeast." Her fingers curl around her knees. "The relevancy of the future had a bit to do with why I chose that degree, that and sociology doesn't actually translate into a job. History has a better chance, but I'd be a terrible school teacher."
And being home to a very interesting perspective on history does that for a girl. Her mouth lifts slightly into a smile, distracted for a moment. "The Soviets aren't the threat that some make them out to be. Our own stubborn determination to be right, maybe, and there are greater troubles. Whatever goes on at the UN, for example."
*
Lindon watches surreptitiously, the interplay of sunlight and shade on those red strands. "I miss going to Central Park," he admits. "It's terrible what's happened to it." Crime he can handle, or at lest it's a normal kind of hazard, but zombies and angry witches? No thank you.
"I wouldn't disagree," he says. "About your take on the Soviets. That they exist is a threat because of how we respond." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Too many troubles. Too many to count, and when they start cascading through his mind, deeper troubles still grumble and groan. Now would be a bad time for a vision. To be honest, there's never a good time. He finds himself spared, however, and he lifts his head, blinking a few times before regarding the redhead with a gentle smile. "Bright minds like yours will figure it out."
*
"Something about that park gathers all manner of attention in the worst of ways," sighs the girl, proof positive of her New York ties even if they aren't really roots, yet. Who knows where that little cutting from Yggdrassil set down, in what fertile or brutal soil. "You may have to take to Brooklyn in the meantime, or get out of the city altogether. Not popular, I understand, but safer in many ways."
She rests her shoulders against the chair and waits for the tea to arrive. Scarlett casts a curious look upon the young man, a smile still in place. "Bright minds like mine will be knocked about and someone more important and consequential than I shall ever be will be the mouthpiece for an idea. Right now, I'm simply looking for the ways to undo the damage already inflicted diplomatically. But who am I that they would ever listen? "
*
Lindon shakes his head and says, "Nah, I like New York. Besides, no one attacks the library." They did attack the fair, though, a little too close to home for his taste. "Worst comes to worse, I'll just…" What will he do? His gaze goes unfocused as he realizes he has no plan. He usually just skips from notion to notion because he is smart enough to think on his feet. Smarter than he realizes. "I think I'm safe for now. From the otherworldly. I, ah, have run into my own trouble, but a move to the Upper East Side might help with that. I've got an offer." To live with a wizard, so he can get away from wizards.
"Influence the mouthpiece," Lindon suggests. "Even getting on a committee or task force that gathers information is a powerful place to be. Goodness, information is the only real power there is. Control that, feed that to the mouthpieces, and you're changing everything."
*
Rogue has partially disconnected.
*
"New York is a lovely place. You'd be surprised, however, for no library is entirely secure against those willing to pillage its halls or desecrate its annals. Knowledge represents a present danger to those thriving upon ignorance; for that circumstance alone it may fall under grim eyes," murmurs the skald, her fingertips spreading into a fan against the top of the table. "Not such would I ever countenance happily." A departure, then, from the light conversation. Restless at heart, she awaits the return of the tea, and delights in the transmission of a plate and the pot onto the table alongside everything else. "Superb, thank you." Smart in accentation, she admires this.
"You can afford the Upper East Side? My goodness, you are slumming it here with me," she replies dryly. "As for the mouthpiece, I've nary an idea who that is other than Captain America. Why would he listen to me?"
*
"We're talking about a small branch in Queens," Lindon says wryly. "Most of what I archive is microfiche of old newspapers. If dark forces wanted to know what happened five years ago in New Haven, then they'll be banging down the door, but other than that…" He vaguely watches people pass by, relaxing as he grows used to the conversation.
With a laugh, he says, "I can't afford the Upper East Side, but the friend offering me a room in his house. I mean I'm well off, but that's a little much." He pauses, considers Scarlett, and says, "It wouldn't be slumming if it's with you," he says. Then, with a shrug, "Why wouldn't he? If anyone would stop to listen, it would be him."
*
"Nonetheless, libraries are easy targets," says the redhead, lifting the cup to her mouth. Its hypersaturated flavour overrides the sensibility of conversation, earthy tones a memory of walks in the woods and autumn afternoons, boggy lakes and northern idylls. "New Haven. Ah, you make me think of a Lovecraft frame of mind. Terrible, truly, something to be deceptively pursued through a misty evening, worrying at all the old Queen Anne homes."
Her gaze flickers thoughtfully into the street, catching signs of others Queens residents coming and going. Here she doesn't entirely belong, not so cleanly as the Village. Places brew their own special atmosphere, and the one that calls to her, well… "Your friend living there is quite fortunate. It is slumming it with me, though, for I haven't that wealth to my name. Alas, no Stark here." Just an Astor, by a technicality, but still!
"I doubt he would listen for what could I offer? 'Don't let those bastards get you down?'"
*
Lindon concedes the point with a small nod. Libraries do make convenient targets, even if they're not particularly interesting ones. A not-particularly interesting one is exactly what he sought out when he arrived here. Now is gaze is turning to more interesting locales. Locales receiving older, more fascinating tomes.
"Lovecraftian themes," he muses. "I think, given my druthers, I'll just take the local football scores off the sports page." Too much truth to those old stories. So much they break his mind to think about. He laughs breathily. "There's greater wealth in good company than a bank account. Spoken as someone with enough money but not many friends."