1964-07-28 - Don't Worry About the Pill, Act I Part II.
Summary: Vesper's work begins as does Remy's research.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
remy-lebeau vesper 

The laboratory at NYU has been converted to serve the purposes of Vesper and Dr. Rooney. In addition to the young woman, there are several more students who work for her so that their dream of moving to human testing can be expedited as much as possible. The work is slow, but exciting. Vesper will be able to tell by the research that this is some pretty marvelous stuff. The idea is that by introducing new chemicals into the body, the X-chromosome will actually change and adapt, and eventually rid the body of the factors of disease by making the gene incompatible with the malady. It is, essentially, an attempt to force nature into the past by forcing the body into the future.

It's the noon hour and the whole crew is at lunch discussing their morning work and letting the conversation go where it will.

Vesper works hard in the lab or the classroom. It's a truth of anyone in the field with two X chromosomes instead of one. Work thrice as hard for a third the credit and triple the blame. She hasn't bothered to lift her head much in the last hour as she reads through the materials provided to them. So much of science is reading before ever getting to experimentation or messing with machines. Her yellow legal pad is covered in gibberish scrawl, little in English. Call it a bit of professional rivalry there. The pen in her hand is cramped, the ink running out. No help, Bic pens are bad now as they'll be in the future too. The French girl sighs, distraction tugging at her sleeve. She can ignore the gnawing in her belly. Fatigue from the polluted city is nothing new to someone who thought she suffered from consumption for years. This is mental distraction, a blushing memory of a picnic or excitement about a new film.

Lunch time strikes as a surprise. She lifts her head. "I brought a sandwich," she says. Frugality is worth something when one's stipend is not particularly great. It's her only source of income at the moment. "Is everyone else going out?" Maybe she can sneak the sandwich and have a light salad. "Or shall we continue through until tonight?"

Dr. Rooney smiles, "I'm meeting with my wife, but I should be back by 1:15 at the latest." Another student, Michael, chimes in, "I'll be staying around here." "Me too," adds Melissa, the other female of the group. Michael leans in over Vesper's shoulder in an attempt to see if she's got the sandwich out. "What kind you got? You want to trade?"

- - -

Meanwhile, somewhere in Flushing Meadow, a prowler slinks in to an A-frame house through a window. Dressed in a black turtleneck and dark pants, the long man slides through the house. His gloves, oddly cut with the forefinger and pinky sleeves removed, stroke their fabric across the table. Pulling back we can see that the man, Etienne, looks far different than he did the other day. His longish hair is neatly combed and pushed back with his sunglasses. His stubble now looks chic instead of a result of dereliction. His hunch is now gone.

He's full of surprises, though. With those glasses removed his eyes are revealed. Crimson and black—an obvious mutant. Gambit peers around the living room pondering, and then heads up to the second floor.

If they want to doubt she's French, they have their opportunity now. "Caprese. Mozzarella, tomato, basil." Right, because that's actually a sandwich even if put on a crusty loaf? Vesper shakes her head a little. "We can sit together and eat. Lunch is too important to be lonely." Even if devoted scientists spend too long that way she isn't one of them. "Tell me your thoughts on the work so far? How do you think the project will go? We have so much material I have never seen published."

Excitement a world and field away from the man prowling around a house. Does every murmur of a car or the bark of a lawnmower make him jump? Does he wonder about someone letting their dog out and the excited bark from the sidewalk outside the house, or is it just another distraction? There's honour among thieves. Jumpiness, too.

"I am totally overwhelmed," Melissa says with a laugh. "I am, too. I mean, it seems like such a big task. Something so huge. How are we going to get this done and get it done so quickly? I mean, a lot of the research is already here, but…" Michael just shakes his head. "It just seems like we're going to have to move really quickly."

- - -

If Remy Le Beau has any concerns, he doesn't seem to show them readily. The creaky house gives him no pause as he saunters down the hallway past a line of photographs depicting the happy family: Alistair Rooney, his wife Claire, and his little boy Jim.

Remy stops midway down the hall and looks to the room to the right. It's clearly a boy's room with baseball posters on the wall, toys on the ground, but then something unexpected. A hospital bed with an IV bag affixed. Remy steps into the room.

"Do you think we have competition? Another team working on this for a breakthrough? I cannot understand the urgency," Vesper muses on the unknown. She heads through the lab and strips off her coat to hang on a peg. No need for that kind of protection. Biological contamination risk means eating in a cramped common area is the way to go. "The researchers I need to see the names of. Maybe I can look at their previous work to see their accomplishments and feedback." How did she miss something like this? The fact sticks in her craw a little. But the Frenchwoman is in good stead. "I look forward to seeing our names on a paper somewhere. That is worth all the labour." And she is not under an illusion it's less than a mountain to mine for a diamond. The thoughts keep her steady with her sandwich unwrapped from wax paper. Daydreams chase her around when she chews on the bread, and the other students are fine to chuckle at her smiling sunnily at the window.


Another bark follows. The urgent voice shoos Chester the dog on. "C'mon, c'mon, let's get moving. We gotta be back before the missus starts her programs." Another bark and the sound fades away. Not that lawnmower, someone is trimming the yard three houses over.

Remy is kneeling in the little boys room, taking a deeper look at some of the IV bags that hang from above. The dogs and the lawnmower get a raised eyebrow, but nothing more. He knows the wife and the son are meeting Dr. Rooney for lunch. He knows precisely how much time he has. And should a neighbor have seen him, well, that would be most unfortunate for the neighbor. Satisfied he turns out of the room and then heads to the bedroom.

- - -

"We might," Melissa says with a shrug. "There must be some kind of reason for it. But to be honest, I've had four classes with Dr. Rooney already. He doesn't seem to be the kind of guy who wants to chase money. Or even prestige really. My sister came here before me and she told me that once he even gave full credit to one of his colleagues on a project for cancer research. Turns out that guy was in deep with the sharks and needed a raise to pay off a loan." Melissa shrugs. "I don't know if that's true, but what I mean is he's a good guy. He doesn't seem like one of those mad scientist types—power hungry and obsessive over his name."

Vesper eats with proper manners. Crumbs catch on wax paper and she does not loom over the table. She might daydream of carbonated water and baguettes now and then. Her ear remains trained on Melissa and the conversation. "Bon. Those kinds of scientists are a good example to us all." Her accent is thicker when she does not pay as much attention to being clear. "The ones eager to make a groundbreaking discovery and insert their names concern me. Some ambition is healthy. Accuracy and real findings matter. People count on us to get our results right, even when we do not prove what we set out." Her smile catches. "Listen to me. I sound like Doctor Richards giving a lecture."

Yes, she knows Reed.

"Yeah, I think you're right," Michael gushes at the idea of the noble scientist. Working for mankind more than man's wallet. A beacon of civility, the best of humanity! People like Reed Richards and Ton…Well..people like Reed Richards! Go team!

The rest of the meal goes well as Michael and Melissa and Vesper bond about all sorts of different things about science that are outside the knowledge of this writer, about France and Spain (where Melissa has been), and about the terrible food at the Freshman dormitory. All in all it's a good first day and both Mike and Mel feel even better about signing on to this crazy escapade.

- - -

Remy is sitting cross legged in the middle of Dr. Rooney's bedroom with file papers organized neatly out in front of him. He pours over them, and despite never really going to school and despite not having that great of a reading ability, he's been working hard at the Mansion to get himself improved. More importantly, he knows exactly what he's looking for. He takes out a pen and begins scribbling something down on a piece of paper he produces from his pocket.

While lawnmowers and dog barks didn't bother him, certain sounds most certainly will. A car door shuts and Remy's eyebrows go up. She's 6 minutes early.

Back to the grindstone with the benefits of the Age of Enlightenment chasing thoughts in her head. Vesper settles back into the documentation and the goals set forth by their professor. In those write-ups she hunts for the truths of their research and the expected outcomes. One cannot force the body to heal itself without knowing what they are playing with. And some of that science is so young, it must be very sketchy indeed even to someone born to among the greatest living geneticists of their time.

Not for the first time, she pauses over her pad of paper and draws a fine question mark. Her pencil drums lightly against the block as she flips a page. End goal is clear. Means to achieve it will be a nonstop slog through the Alaskan wilderness guided by nothing more than the light of reason and guesswork. She slips into her coat.

- - -

Claire Rooney sets the car keys down upon the table and gets an odd feeling. She stops abruptly and looks around the room. "Are you alright mommy?" asks the little boy, Jim, who trails behind her. His voice is muffled slightly by a medical mask he is forced to wear. "Fine, honey," Claire responds as her eyes dart around the room. "Go play in the living room, honey."

Slowly she ascends the stairs.

By the time she reaches to top she's tiptoed and somehow found one of her husband's drivers, which she wields in a sword-pose. She was always after Alistair to put his golf bag away. Now she's happy he didn't. She walks slowly, as quietly as she can, ready to strike if need be. Past the pictures of her family in the hallway. Past Jimmy's room with the baseball posters, toys, and the hospital bed and on towards the bedroom where her and Alistair sleep. High goes the golf club.

- - -

The rest of the afternoon goes pretty well. Alistair Rooney is constantly cracking jokes, talking about old times, and making the pressure of completing this work seem not so bad and even possible. At five o'clock they've reached a point where it's no use in continuing. All of the work they can do from here on out is going to end up taking the day tomorrow. Professor Rooney adjourns the group.

Normally Vesper might stay late. She hauls the materials she's obtained with her, along with a journal or three published for August. Those will be her 'light' reading. The studies detailing new breakthroughs and possible discoveries for peer review are largely outside her routine now. They're still important to know and read. What an exciting life she leads.

Saying farewell to her fellow researchers and Mr. Rooney gives her time to make the short trip back to her apartment. Her things she places on the kitchen table and her shoes touch the ground. Turning on the radio brings out the latest lovely noise called music. Not her favourite but it will do as she sways to the song and dances. Not the swaying rhythm of a dance floor but the twirling, studied poise of a ballerina missed up a bit. By the third revolution she's probably already forgotten herself, becoming the music, wavering and swaying with the sonic vibrations and sound waves.

By the time she can hear the knock, Vesper might get the idea that the person on the other side has had to beckon more than once. And more than twice, probably. Should she look through the hole, she'll see a man that may or may not be the guy she saw yesterday. He looks very different. Yesterday he looked like a drunk hobo. Today, like an actor slash model. The sunglasses are the same, but he wears a black turtle neck, black pants, and boots. She'll have to open up if she wants to know whether the smell is still there or not.

The girl on the soundwavs isn't visible. Not when she ripples with those vibrations vibrating out of her radio in an ecstatic celebration of the musician of the moment. Judy Garland this is not. The transmitted chorus hums through her body and Vesper follows the wavelength. Sometimes the music sounds distorted as though someone plays with the volume controls, turning the dial to and fro. It's only when her intimate awareness of the thumping is something other than the high hat symbol dulling the drum kit's bumpy slink rhythm that she stops. The hammer noise feeds into her. Remember how to be. It takes a second for her to constitute enough memory of flesh and the ache in her sore feet and the familiar knot of her pulled air to come back.

The other side of the door makes a good barrier. He'll hear footsteps, bare at this point, on the floor. A glimpse of the fisheye for something and someone barely known. Vesper starts. This is her life now. Visitors showing up at the strangest of places. The chain slides as she slowly turns the deadbolt and handle to open the door a fraction. Not that a chain will stop much. Her voice is low. "«Hello?»" Yes, French will do. Her stomach drops through the floor and she asks, "«What are you doing here? Did you think this was the secret meeting place for all the Francophones?»"

«Well, if I thought that I would have come sooner.» Remy's response comes with a smile. « Listen, I wasn't snooping, but I noticed after our talk that you lived in this building, just across from where my friend I was telling you about lived. I did check the mailboxes for the most French sounding last name. I was wondering if you would be interested in having dinner with me sometime. Since I'm not a student, I didn't think I'd have that many more chances to bump into you, so I figured the direct approach was best. »

|ROLL| Vesper +rolls 1d20 for: 16

Her thumb rests on the metal slide that keeps the sliding chain in place. Her elbow and the line of her body brace the door. Feet on the ground are poised to push back if necessary or absorb a blow. Not totally helpless then, not totally ignorant about opening her door to strangers that might go wandering into a movie originally imagined for James Dean's successor. Her head tilts down as she squashes the flare of alarm when he tells her a story. "«Do you happen to notice where most of your acquaintances live, Monsieur Etienne?»" Slinging her questions back at him like they're on the clay court at the French Open leaves a dusky catch in her voice. When she speaks English, her voice lifts a half octave. It's not unrealistic. "«Or simply the friends you intend to dine with? I half-wonder that I'm not expected to put a second place down at the table.»"

She's going to blame the lessons from Karnak for this. Karnak, who has taught her how to impose control. The woman with the eternal nihilistic view on the world has somehow infected her. She is not blushing at herself!

Remy holds his hands up in submission. « Look. I think you're pretty. You have a bit of spark to you. I saw you walk in this building, and figured I'd take my shot. If you don't want to go to dinner, it ain't no problem. I won't bother you any further.» He tilts his head and raises his eyebrow. « Cross my heart. » He literally crosses his heart.

… and hope to die. Vesper can probably be heard thinking that by anyone who isn't a telepath. She isn't preaching the gospel she inadvertently helped to shape about this. "«For the price of a story. Why you ended up in the university commons looking like that, and this now.»" Her life is strange enough that sometimes she pieces together the narrative wrong. Speculating there might be another link here, and the fingerprints of her people all over the situation, spurs her. She moves away from the door to grab her purse, leaving a spill of four or five magazines of a scientific bent on the ground. She has no plans for the evening but reading and it's a Friday. Even a closeted TB patient kept from any sort of entertainment can want an escape. Even if it's a stranger she can make gold from straw. Adding her keys to the mix in the purse, she returns to the door. Chances are he's gone when she opens it.

But he's not. He's still standing there. Her trip to get her things has allowed him a chance to come up with his story. « My friends and I were at a party over in SoHo and we stumbled back to sleep in his dorm. He owed me five bucks but had class before he repaid me so I had to wait out for him. Was a far out party. If you are in to that sort of thing.»

It doesn't take long in part because Vesper needs so little preparation. Sunglasses and a purse. That's about it. She shuts the door behind her and sets the lock to rights. No taking chances in Washington Square Park area, even if the area isn't quite so dodgy as SoHo or other parts. TriBeCa isn't a thing yet, but it's sure scary enough and close enough to remind Vesper of those essential acts of security. "«No, not really. That is not much my scene. Too new to the city.»" As if the latter needs explanation. Why is she justifying herself to him? The kick of her analytical mind steps in to save her from hanging herself. "«How well do you know the area? Is there somewhere that you need me to secure a table?»" Mischief might be showing around the edges.

«I didn't really know what sort of mood you were in and what kind of food you like, so I guess it's sort of up to you where we go. If you want fancy I can do fancy.» Thank heavens he robbed that bank with the Brotherhood a while back or he'd be hurting for cash. But this was important. Failure in this mission isn't really an option.

"«Hardly has to be fancy. I am hardly dressed for somewhere requiring suit and tie.»" Which implies pearls and a dress on her part, rather than the striped shirt and smart skirt she ventured out on the town with. Vesper self-consciously tucks the dark strand of her hair behind her ear, her trusty ponytail gathered high and teased a bit for stylish elements. See, a casual girl for a casual place. "«I would not place such an obligation on you as that. You barely know the first thing about me, after all.»" That road goes both ways, though that in turn goes without saying. Her hand grips the strap of her purse biting into her shoulder, and she heads for the stairs. Elevators are reserved for those who actually need to reach the higher levels of the building and she will not snarl up the traffic for convenience when her knees are perfectly good. "«Surprise me then. I can hardly hold it against you that way. Here's to living impulsively.»"

«Truer words have never been spoken,» Remy replies as he opens the door for her and they head out onto campus. Their travels aren't too terribly long as he ends up taking her to an authentic Mexican place located just a few blocks from the main part of campus. There are festive lights in the shape of peppers, sombreros on some of the staff, and fun music playing. When asked, Remy directs the server to give them a spot at the tables out back so that it might be more possible to talk.

Fun music and a sombrero as an authentic experience may be lost on someone removed from Latin culture. Spanish she knows a bit better by way of the Franco-Spanish Wars. Shame be upon Paris for clutching its pearls so hard when it comes to anything to do with Franco, you know? Tapas and paella have a long way to come before denting the collective Gallic conscience. But she's not going to look condescendingly down a nose refined over twenty-five millennia to still be human in shape and pert slope. Over the walk she remained mostly quiet. Her dark eyes watch over the festive lights with interest, focused quite a bit. Their bright sparkles vanish into the midnight zone of her own pupils, at least for now.

Squeezed into the corner is hardly a problem for someone trim and gamine as the geneticist. She settles herself in right down to the napkin in her lap. The menu will take a bit of puzzling out. Words like 'tortilla' and 'empanada' mean nothing to her. Salsa is a dance. Tequila is a mistake in the afternoon.

"So tell me bout yo'self, Vespa," Etienne says with a grin as he sits back in the chair. "Wasn't tinkin I be lucky enough to get this far and I done realized dat I dun really know much about you and all you got goin' on. From de top, now." Remy looks over her head toward the waiter and holds up two fingers for whatever. The waiter disappears.

"«I've always been told that speaking at length about myself is rude.»" She keeps surveying the columns of the menu, relying in part on the pictures to describe the food for sale and their general disposition. Everything may be made of ground beef, cheese, and possibly tomatoes. It does not mean she can conjecture what a quesadilla is from anything else. "«A woman has to keep some mystery about her. Perhaps you should tell me what you've guessed and let me fill in the blanks based on what you have guessed.»" It allows time to decipher how much alcohol she's not going to consume, and what constitutes the safest choice on the menu. "«Or you can take that as leave to tell me what brings man like yourself to New York out of the bayou.»" It might be odd hearing a native Francophone speak about Louisiana. They don't pronounce things the same, always.

"Dahlin, you about de most polite gal I ever did meet," Remy says with a chuckle as two blue margaritas arrive with a large bowl of chips and a smaller bowl of salsa. "What I guess, huh? Well, you a quiet sort. Got a studious look to ya. Ahm gun say you either be an English major wit your nose in de books all de time."

"A lady is always modest and polite," replies Vesper, in English. It may have all the refinement of a boarding school and probably followed with a stern smack of a ruler on a desk to make the girls jump. She reaches for a tortilla chip and turns it over. It won't take her long to figure out the harmonious marriage of tortillas and salsa. That bite gives her a bit more flavour than intended. "«You are a chameleon. Given how easily you walked up to the gentleman there to ask for a table, you are at your most comfortable in social settings. An extrovert, bold as a peacock, as they say. Public opinion does not matter to you quite so much. So a very bold social chameleon, probably used to turning all the ladies' heads and trusting in the charm of the right word and your very well-shaped…" Beat. "…. grin. Though you do not attend here, you said yourself, which means you work. You do not look like the people born and raised to money. They all walk differently, and for one don't walk most places, do they?" Nor would they ever be seen drunk. "A smoker. Bad habit, or merely to keep your hands busy?"

The game goes both ways.

"Got all sorts of ways to keep my hands busy, chere," Remy says with a laugh as he drapes his arm languidly over the chair next to him. "Spend my days as an auto mechanic over in Staten Island," Remy lies. "Originally move up heah for a girl. It din work out but ah kind of like de city so ah stay. Been here 'bout a year." He shrugs his shoulders, "We all smoke down in de garage, love." He pauses and tilts his head, "Charm and de right word, you say? Guess dat dependin' on whetha or not you find me charmin. Ahm just a peacock who like spicy food."

"«Wrong field.»" She picks out another chip from the basket. "«Biology.»" Genetics is a bit of an outlier, so it's far easier for her to walk into that one. "«So charming is a white lab coat and a sterile environment, turning up centrifuges. A bit different from a garage and working on cars. That's quite a different line of work. I'm sorry to hear that your reason for coming did not turn out.»" Some could mean it and others treat it like a flippant Hallmark greeting. She actually puts a dose of honest emotion into the statement. The server may or may not come by to take an order if the opening appears but for the moment, she simply does not give off cues of having a decision. "It's good you have found something else to fill the time. New York is rather lovely. Overwhelming, but never a moment without something exciting happening.»"

Etienne smiles and starts to laugh. "Biology. Sheesh." There's a shake of his head, "Well, in de highly unlikely event dat dis work out you can tell all yo friends dat opposites do attract. Iffen it don't, least you get some free Mexican food outta de deal." His body language remains casual and nonchalant. Inside his mind he's thinking that he might need a different in to find what Sinister is really working on.

What exactly can she even say to that? Her wide eyes shot by the rainbow from the faerie lights shift upwards, no longer assessing the menu that holds in place. Nonchalant he is; she's more alert, a deer possibly catching wind that there's a whole pack of predators around her. Even if they cannot be seen, the shifting wind of possibility carries something she has yet to name. Even if the predator could be herself. "«What would you suggest to eat? I confess, it's not the most familiar to me.»" She will mangle the pronunciation and that's simply a fact she can live with.

"Ah recommend the tacos if you are new to Mexican food," Etienne says with a shrug. "Other good stuff like burritos shouldn't be too spicy either. As for me I'm going with Carne Asada." He chuckles, "Tell me 'bout how Vespah got involved with dis sciency biology stuff."

"«Spicy will not be a problem. Supposing the spices are done properly not to hide the food but complementary.»" In New York, anyone can be a new man. Elbow on the table for a brief moment, she sets aside the menu and apparently trusts in the whims of fate. Fortune turns in funny ways here, anyways." «Carne asada. Meat of some kind.»" One wishes only that the great hero of both worlds - Lafayette - had dented more of the English dominance with a tack of French for his children many times removed. Vesper crosses her ankles under the table, naturally propped back. "«I wanted to do something good to help people. Astronomy was never allowed, so I took a liking to the next field closest to my heart. Biology holds the key to many troubles in the world today. Perhaps if we can help people be healthier, they might not be pushed into poverty. The world is hard enough without the addition of burdens like cancer, or chronic troubles in other countries. Typhoid, cholera, measles, these aren't diseases people should suffer from when we are so rich and our science so advanced.»" Somewhere Nexus is scoffing. Advanced human science. Right.

Etienne smiles, "Well, when ya put it like dat it all sounds ratha …altruistic. You got mah apologies, I was tinkin' you must be some hoity toity and uppity gal. Din' tink 'bout all dose otha reasons t'be innit." He looks to the menu. "Pork. Dey slow cook it. It not bad, not bad at all. Especially wit de home made sauce dey got here." And then, back to the science. "Dat sound like a lot of fun. What kind of work you tinkin' of doin' when you get done wit school?

The world falls into two camps and, for the moment it's easy to put Vesper squarely in the 'think we'll of people' camp. She will bother the server for a moment with her request for a taco, neatly waving for him to show up and take what they will as an order out of Etienne. While he orders she turns to that blue margarita melting slowly into watery slush and dye too bright to recognize. She swirls around the straw to leave an impression boiling in the morass, the zigzag she paints overlaid on a spiral with some artistic notion of balance. "Astronomy is near to my heart still. Nut I suppose do what every scientist does. Secure funding and a grant, research into the worst conditions affecting people and come up with a way to help or solve. I do not think I would be comfortable at a pharmaceutical company. Maybe better for something publicly funded. Looking into childhood or chronic diseases and finding a way to stop that kind of trouble. Those ones which are genetic, maybe like diabetes? We could save children by understanding what causes the problem and stopping it." She draws off to silence. "You are not letting me talk you to death, am I? We could talk about something else. I know a bit of cars. Some of them. Alfa-Romeos, Renaults, a few German makes." You know, Porsche.

Remy laughs, "Dun see a lot of Alfa-Romeos 'round here, love." He shakes his head, "Nah, I like listenin' t'you talk. Dats how ahm gonna get to know ya better an all dat." He dips the straw back over the lip of his drink, holding it there with his forefinger and drinks from the lip of the glass. "Genetics," he says with a grin. "What you tink bout de whole mutant ting, chere?"

Oh, Etienne-nee-Remy hits a target he might not even know exists. Or surely he does. The way a woman adverts her gaze under the soot curve of her lashes is a tell, so too the subtle shift of her chin to the side that accompanies the change. The fair hue for her complexion will never really carry much of its own colour, even when blushing. The heat adds a slight glow to her cheeks and trails down her throat, a trail of rose petal blossoms. Chaos in the system; abort, retry, fail?

She scoops up the glass and sips. Never gulping down something with an unknown kick there, her manners even with a margarita glass decorated with a cactus intact. Really, who invents these things? Give them a raise!

"I think cursing someone based on their genetic sequence is spitting in the eye of God or whatever made us. It is profoundly ignorant. Look through the microscope lens and then judge. But the loudest are the most unlikely to educate themselves. It means they could be wrong. All the world changes. They're afraid when it does. I get this fear but I do not like it. "

"Well," Remy says, taking a calculated risk. He removes his sunglasses and reveals his eyes, those of the devil himself. Very clearly he is a mutant. "Figure soemtin you should know up front and proper. Dun wanna make it seem like ahm keepin' sometin from ya." He chuckles and takes a sip of his margarita. "Agree wit dose words, hundred percent."

The devil would actually take umbrage at that; his eyes are considerably more fascinating in his not so humble opinion. But Remy hasn't asked and Lucifer isn't answering, is he?

How much bravery does it take to meet a gaze so different from her own? Of course some. Vesper%<u2019>s eyes are the soft brown of a doe's, only fair given the height to match. She pushes her sunglasses down her nose until they literally slide right off, clattering on the tabletop. "Everyone keeps some secrets. Your bad habits or love for watching the Lucy show. I like an American cook who tries out recipes I grew up with." Julia Child, halloooooo! She cups her hand against the nape of her neck where the auburn locks skimming from her high ponytail waterfall onto her shoulders neatly. "That is still a surprise. But not terrible. If you turn green I might faint or run away, though. I heard about the green giants that sometimes showed up here." Good to know your limits, Vesper.

Remy chuckles and shakes his head, "Nah, no turnin' green, chere. Just dis and electric fingers. Does de limits of what ah do, he replies, somewhat relieved she doesn't seem to be running for the hills yet. "Ah take offense to de idea ah got any bad habits, chere," he adds with a grin. "What you like to do for fun, chere?"

"Electric fingers? You make lightning?" It would be easier in French but then that might incline people to listen harder to the foreign discussion. That just happens. Just in time to catch her wandering thoughts, she says, "Finding more ways to have fun. It's all new to me. This." Her hand draws an errant, vague circle. "I am trying a little of everything to see what I like. There is not so much yet I do not like. Learning about the options requires me to know about them, a trick in and of itself."

Sacrificial lamb, Cajun altar.

"Sometin' like dat. More of d'ability to charge tings. Turn dem into lil explosions," Remy makes it sound like its fireworks but it's far more destructive than that. "Trying a little bit of everyting?" He seems to get a kick out of that. "Dat can either be really fun. Or really dangerous."

"I am tired of walls. Tired of being afraid." Those are important answers to give in the conversation that slides back and forth, eddying in a spiral between them. Food and alcohol make life more interesting, though she is sparing at best with the margarita. Not tonight will she be carried home and tucked into bed. Too much self-awareness for that. They could trade stories all night in their way and learn lies and truths, the latter mostly in his part. No, she's not been to the World's Fair. French chocolate really is that good. And so forth.

By the end of the night there's a quick goodbye with a nod and a wave. It is, like Vesper herself, extremely polite. Once he walks away from the date, Remy is a bit forlorn, all things be told. It is not really all that likely that he's going to find this avenue beneficial in his search. And worse…he kind of likes this sweet girl.

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