|
  |
Lux hums to its own sharp, jazzy beat interspersed with a melodic rock that most would dub experimental. The drugs in the crowd are powerful things, wrested from the dens of Berlin, and only available to a select few. If you're on the list of reputable buyers then perhaps the blessing of a firebird is available for you. If not, wonder why the mood is easy.
Lucian is halfway through stalking down the corridor. In hand, a manila envelope and a sheaf of papers. The products of a day's hardwork are not readily apparent except for that. Somewhere, Maze is sharpening her knives.
*
That's not something he attempts to censor - not within his paygrade, save as his superiors direct. Jack of all trades is exactly that, down to occasional handyman work. He's good with fixing things (not least of which himself). And at the moment, coming off a break - those he tends to spend outside, though he doesn't smoke within the confines of the workday…..or anywhere near as much as he used to. Though his nose is nothing like it was when he was a wolf, the impulse to process through scent remains much, much stronger than it was, and anythign that dulls it has less appeal.
*
Maz's mood has been odd the past week. Chalk it up to Grigorim and displays of fancy. Ana rarely wavers from her brilliant, freckled good cheer spread far and wide. The master of creation and existence halts for a moment, the frisson of bleak disaster hardly the cause for a hitch in his step. Another patron steers wide, altogether too aware of who the man is if not what. No one adds 'Morningstar' to their surname without a purpose or a brass pair.
He chooses then to alter course, headed through a discreet door that allows one to reach the ground level approach off the mezzanine. One day the fire marshal will find this place and freak out. Until then, well. "Evening, Barnes." Yes, that voice travels, liquid night.
*
And Buck, of late, has been even quieter than usual. For all that he may be a crap liar, and his actual identity one of Lux's open secrets among staff and regulars alike….he does have some training in concealing his emotions. Not unpleasant, not Winter's cinderblock stoicism, but that pleasant, friendly veneer that's a mile wide and an inch deep. He's been thinking about something, still in the reverie as he shrugs his suit jacket back on, that little line graven between his brows. It clears as he looks up in inquiry - Lucian's got a few inches on him. "Evening, boss," he says, quietly.
*
Cinderblock stoicism that doesn't flinch under the crash of an ice pick smile or a knowing look, that's all well and good. Though the nature of the human psyche isn't a stranger for the seraph. His ability to deflect attention and evade conversation points is probably legendary, but the Devil has the details to ponder. "Lucian is fine. That broaches dangerously close to 'my lord' and then all Hell breaks loose." The flip of the papers doesn't admit more than a rustle, his grip firm enough. Lucian turns slightly, leaning to the wall. "You're good?"
*
Now there's a flicker of ….almost slyness in his eyes, the ghost of amusement. "I'm afraid I'll slip if I call you that," he says, quietly. "And it feels….strange to address an employer by his first name." He's lived his life within hierarchy - the Army, the Russians. The American informality that should be his birthright's long since eroded away. "But I'm good, thanks," Looking at Lucian - that one way by which he might betray himself, and he's been careful, even on that front. There's no one else for the moment, and he can look his fill - a cat can look at a king, the old story says.
*
Ghosts are meant to flit among the corridors of dusty buildings, to be confined to midnight rooms and gloomy forests. They do not belong under the golden veneer saturating the corridors of power in Lux, nor before the greatest player of such games. "You would slip and call me Lucifer, the Morningstar, Satan, the Accuser, the Betrayer, the enemy? Anyone could do that. How much credence do you suspect they'd give, or would they care?" People in silken nets so rarely fight the cobwebs when they lie down themselves. "As you will, then." He isn't going to push upon Bucky that way. Knowing the fracture points, it's probably an unwise thing. "Tomorrow we can expect a quieter day until the end. More concerning for Friday, a shipment coming in and probably a host of rusalka. En route elsewhere, but they bear watching all the same."
*
He inclines his head in assent, and some little gratitude. It shows in the eyes. Listening and nodding, with the air of one taking notes. The mention of rusalka makes his mouth quirk. Things of Russian myths have been popping up of late, things Winter'd encountered in his time. No matter the Republic's grand plans and assertions, the woods and tundra are still haunted by the remnants of older ages, things that fear neither slug nor blade. He's exactly the kind of thing rusalki love to drag under the water. "I'll keep an eye on them," he promises.
*