Feb Logs
Travis Reed is currently sitting in a corner or this particular bookstore with a thick tomb of a book in lap. To anyone walking past, he would appear to be amused at the contents of this particular volume. However, the propped head in hand just happens to cover the frequent flickering of eyes off to a magazine rack where one nervous gentleman thumbs through a magazine he obviously doesn't want associated with himself--at least if the frequent startlement as people walk past is any indication.
Startle at this, then: the near-silent passage of a woman in dull grey, heavy hair bound back in a tail, sunglasses slid back to crown the sleek, black head. Asian by birth, young by nature; she pauses between hunter and prey, attention for the book in hand tugged up and away, drawn in puzzled inquiry across the bookstore's crowd.
Travis frowns slightly as the woman stops in his line of view. He makes no attempt to move or look past her, however, but merely licks a finger and turns the page of his research. His prey isn't moving just yet; no need for anxiety.
In any case, the barrier is not long in removing itself. The woman stirs, hesitating across a step, then a next; the dark head dips askance, attending to some wisdom limited to her purview. Then it is motion again, crisp and clean, the grace of efficiency. The seat across from Travis is empty. She claims it without comment, sinking into its recesses with a femininity trained in some finishing school -- its edge first, then a slide into its depths, legs mated and angled to sketch a comma tail.
A sidewards glance marks Travis' noting of the presence. Page flip. The glances across the room are less frequent now that another person has entered the equation. Fascinating material this... Urban Mythologies of the Western World.
Surely more interesting than the woman's selection, which has even less to do with reality. 'Stupid White Men,' its title reads, and she leafs through it with a gentle, respectful hand, brow stitching over the large and flamboyant text. Distress uncurls, slithering ophidian beneath the coffee table to lick at Travis's feet; frustration trails it, a harder, more feral beast. A finger touches a word, and almond-dark eyes flick up, their glance touching on the man.
Now that is music to the soul. Or emotions for the nostrils, if you will. Travis glances up as the poignant sense reaches him, causing him to glance up at the same time. Rather than turning back to his book, he reaches for a previously ignored coffee beside him. "Damn, now it's cold," he mutters, at least loud enough to warrant a response, should she choose.
The woman offers the flicker of a smile, the barest touch of warmth to soften remote, exotic features. "Your book is so engaging?" Alto voice, alien accent; it tugs at the slow cadence of words, nudging them just so, just a little off-kilter. Once more the black head tilts, and frustration's scent gnaws, giving the lie to serenity.
"Well, it is certainly better than being outside in this bloody cold," Travis shrugs, closing the book with a finger to mark his place. "Yours looks, ah, interesting."
"It is ... pop culture, I think," the woman admits, folding it shut over a finger's placeholder to bare its title, upside-down, to Travis's regard. Uncertainty glances down at it; eyes fold then, tossing up a spectre of amusement wholly unaccounted for by chemical signal. "The title interested me. I am afraid I have judged a book by its cover."
"Most people do," Travis smirks slightly, taking a brief moment to ensure his man is not yet on the move. "Most figures of speech are--warnings against things humanity already does. Well, at least English ones."
An eyebrow lifts, arching to meet the black wing of hair. "Figures of speech," she echoes, making of the phrase a question. The chin lifts; the dark eyes go blank, flicking through some internal dictionary while interest wakes and capers. "You speak of the title? Or this phrase, to judge a book by its cover?"
"Book by its cover," Travis shrugs. "Idiom. Not that I'm a scholar of the English language or anything," he qualifies. "Just that most people do make initial snap judgements and are wary of letting them go afterwards."
"Books," says the woman, and smiles faintly down at hers. The free hand drops to the cover, long fingers settled at rest over Michael Moore's smirk and the crooked, garish lettering. "This one, I think, is meant almost to be humor. I distract you from yours. Is it so uninteresting?"
"It is passtime," Travis shrugs. "Too little time to go home, too long to wander outside in the wind. So I find myself here with a cup of coffee and a book you'd sit a small child on during Thanksgiving."
Hesitation marks the raise of hand, deprecation slanting the eyes' flicker up. "You have children?"
"Oh, god no," Travis blinks. "Not that I'm very big on celebrating US holidays either. It's... just an expression."
"Ah," says the woman, and follows with an apologetic, "I am sorry if I intrude. English is not--" Irritation prickles, hedgehog-agile to spite the curl of mouth and opaque peace. The free hand gestures again, winged, and comes to rest atop its fellow, smothering Michael Moore entirely. "My name is Yuriko."
"Not to worry," Travis shrugs. "I'm usually more careful about my words. Long week." After a moment's hesitation and a quick glance across the room, he adds "I'm Travis. Good to meet you."
The dark head inclines in a makeshift bow; the dark eyes, turned askance, track his glance and, bemused, miss their target. "New York is not as familiar as I remembered it," Yuriko murmurs. "May I ask what your occupation is?"
"Professional consulting," Travis rattles off. "Yourself? I take it from your words you're newly back in the city?"
"A short-term visa," Yuriko says simply, as descriptive as he. The hint of a smile couches itself behind her expression; for the first time, true amusement spills itself on processed air, spreading its scent over books and laps. "I am only a visitor. I have a guidebook," she adds naively. "It has a great many pictures."
"Well, I suppose we do have a few sights to see," Travis shrugs. "Most people visit to shop, however. To each his own, I suppose. I've never found much use for guidebooks myself. They seem to take you to places where all the other tourists gather, so you spend more time looking at the backs of people's heads than any statue."
The pale face is grave; the drift of gaze, less so. "It is the nature of my people to gather together in packs," she advises solemnly. "We are like, perhaps, ants? The little insects that travel in herds. We also have a uniform."
"Hah, we do at that. The 8 million within walking distance being the very proof," Travis sniffs. "A uniform," he asks after a pause. "As in..."
A hand floats up to touch the sunglasses, following the plastic curve of earpiece into hair. "I am not wearing it," she apologizes with due humility. "There is a hat, and a camera, and the pants, they must have -- gommu. Elastic, at the waist. White shoes and, perhaps, Mickey Mouse."
"Ah," Travis actually chuckles at that. "I'd not thought of it as that. And yes, either Mickey Mouse or 'NEW YORK' in big bold letters sprayed across the front. Nothing to be ashamed of. I admire the occasional tourist--hell, anyone, I suppose--that goes against the norm."
"I love New York," Yuriko corrects, helpful child. A forefinger touches air, drawing out the heart's shape in precise, impromptu geometry. "City. --You are from here?"
The smirk on Travis face shows his ample amusement. "Yes, I stand corrected. There must be hearts, particularly in gaudy reds or pinks that clash with the orange city lights in the background. And yes, from here, or close enough. My adult life, at least," Travis shrugs.
A smile's slight color touches the girl's face once more, tucking shadow into the corners of her mouth, warming the veiled cast of eyes. Nearby, a group of highschoolers clatter up the escalator, shrieking high-pitched mirth over some convoluted jest. "Is there a place you recommend, then? To a tourist?"
"The docks--the commercial ones--down at the south end of Manhattan," Travis says immediately. "Not for a tourist, but someone wanting to see out of the norm. Nice view of the statue, after dark, and you're not tripping over people and lines at the ferry dock."
"I am unfamiliar," Yuriko murmurs, voice dropping in counterpoint to the fading trill of adolescent hilarity. "It is safe, the docks? I have heard stories...."
"Just be smart and anywhere's safe," Travis shrugs. "Don't go waving a purse about or talking on a cell phone or snapping photos on every block. Walk confident, even if you don't know where you're going, and no one will bother you."
The exotic, black-limned eyes widen slightly, smudging rich brown with lighter color. "Snapping photos and talking on a cell phone?" she marvels. "The criminals, they do not like these things?"
"They like them quite a bit," Travis smirks. "Or rather, they like to take advantage of people who don't seem to be paying attention where they're going."
Yuriko glances down at herself: the fine-boned frame; the air of feminine fragility. "Ah," she says. "I am not ... intimidating, perhaps."
"Well, if you can't pull it off, just walk with someone who can," Travis says. "Most people don't give themselves credit, though. You might be surprised."
The woman considers. Seriously. "I could wear a hat, yes? To make myself look taller."
"As long as it doesn't have Mickey Mouse ears, then yes," Travis nods.
The barest hint of surprise startles Yuriko's eyes open, and then they are slivered again, splintered again, nearly lost behind quiet amusement and the cultural, automatic lift of hand to shield humor. "You have city wisdom," she compliments. "I think, no Mickey Mouse ears. I will find a guide, before I visit the docks. Thank you."
Travis bows his head slightly at that. "Thanks for the compliment," he says, obviously thinking it one intentional or not. His eyes flicker back across the room, widening as an expletive excapes. "Got to go," he says, standing abruptly and dropping the book into the now vacant chair. "Nice to meet you, good luck with your sightseeing." And with that, he's striding across the store toward the exit, the previously-stalked prey nowhere to be seen.
Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office (#3421RC)
Mid-week evening finds Travis in a dark running suit. The fact that the route just happens to bring him past a certain office, where he just happens to stop outside to catch his breath, and a few moments later, he happens to be gone. Inside makes no difference. So it's in slightly less formal attire that he finds himself outside of a certain office, and a quick three raps on the door announce his presence.
"Come in." The sound is muffled, and the reason is evident upon his entrance. Emma is on her hands and knees, peering under the couch in the corner and reaching for something. She pulls her hand in enough to look up and over her shoulder to roll exasperated eyes at Travis. "How are you with cats?"
"I know a few good recipes, but I hear I do much better with seafood, actually," Travis replies as he strides into the room.
Emma plants her hands on her knees and straightens, giving him a withering look. "And to think, that's one skill of yours I haven't tested." She leans over and peers back under the couch once more before pushing to her feet and ambling toward him to slide a proprietary hand around the back of his neck and tug him down for a kiss. "I have a job for you, darling," she murmurs against his lips.
Travis lets the minimal space hang between them, one finger tracing an eyebrow as he stares into her eyes. "I love it when you say that," he breathes, playing the role fully despite the misdubbed dialog. "Tell me all about it."
She doesn't, not right away. She pushes up to continue the kiss with ferocity that leaves them both breathless about thirty second later, when they part enough for her to whisper, "I've had another defection, Knight. Jason Wyngarde's run away from home."
"Well, that just won't do," Travis murmurs, taking a quick breath before resuming the kiss. Then, "Do you want him brought back or made a demonstration. And if the latter, what level of severity? Things being as they have been... Well, no, I'll not make a recommendation."
Emma drops back, but doesn't let go. Apparently she's feeling just a little domineering tonight. Her fingers twist into his hair and tugs. Gently. Rather. "Things being as they are, he deserves to be shot. They all deserve that, and damn if the one person I can actually /enforce/ that bloody rule with is the one person I don't /want/ to." She glares out to the side, lip curling in a snarl that smooths when she lifts her eyes to his. "Jason is now formally on your list of expendable pieces, Knight," she intones solemnly, then lowers her voice and ducks her head to rumble against the skin that rises out of the collar of his running suit, "Just... don't tire yourself out chasing after him, hmm?"
"I would have thought you'd know by now. I don't tire easily," Travis smirks at the air above her, not moving except to let his hands rest in the small of her back. "So, that being the case, it's simply a matter of which order we prefer. Priorities and all that. Do you know where he is now?"
"No," she says firmly, running exploring fingers along the juncture of shoulder, up neck, past ear, and forward to jawline, which she presses against to still his face and lock gazes. "No, I don't, and he has had four days head start. Let him keep that, if possible. And if he's stupid enough to let himself get caught... Well." She pauses and repositions arms on shoulders to let her hands clasp loosely behind his neck. "Well. Let's put it this way. You have other priorities. Understand?"
"Completely," Travis says, his jaw flexing under her touch with the word. "Though perhaps a bit of a refresher on those priorities would be worth, ah, exploring."
"Mmm. Good boy," she breathes before leaning in and up to bleed frustration and despair and regret in fast and furious refreshment.