Telling Tales


cat_icon.gif grace_icon.gif

Scene Title Telling Tales
Synopsis Cat drops by to catch Grace up on information, or be caught up, however it works out.
Date December 7, 2008

The Hangar, Greenwich Village

A wrought-iron fence borders several small garden beds and the stone stairs leading up to the house's front door. The house itself is a structure of old stone - not even concrete blocks, but quarried stone — with natural-color wood doors and window frames. The windows on the ground floor are barred.

Inside, the level is divided into only three rooms. The first is the foyer, with polished hardwood flooring, a freestanding coatrack on either side, iron-dark against soft-amber interior walls. The main staircase spirals up from one corner of the foyer, girded by a wrought-iron railing.

To the right from the entrance is the kitchen. The walls just off from white, the floor tiled in dark gray. In the center of the kitchen is a black-topped island, matching the counters that line the room. One wall is dominated by an eminently modern stove framed by an anachronistic brick hearth. Cabinets above the counters have glass doors; the windows above the sink are framed in light-colored curtains, the illumination they let in adding to the expansive atmosphere.

The dining room takes up the back of this floor. The far wall is brick and stone, with a facade of a fireplace mantle in the center. Interior walls have been painted a tone intermediate between amber and ivory, which is also the accent color in the dark rug beneath the long dining table.

Sunday afternoon finds Grace actually at work, so much as that isn't mutually exclusive with also being at home. She's presently all the way up at the top of the townhouse, comfortably settled in a chair with laptop to hand; up here is the most absurd place to put a "living room" as far as she's concerned, but it's not like she designed the building. Overall, the house is quiet; Scott's sleeping. Even the couple of guests they're hosting at the moment know better than to disturb his rest.

Curiosity has once again taken hold in this Cat, who approaches The Hangar after parking her car somewhere a few blocks away. She's casually clad, and without guitar or backpack. Those are left in the trunk, along with her bow and quiver of arrows. On the way to the door she pauses first to recall the time she shot and probably killed a man with that weapon, her eyes facing the direction where that event occurred at first, then studying her hands as if they might have the spot of blood Lady MacBeth tried so hard to scrub away.

And as Cat shakes herself free of that memory, moving still closer to the house causes her to again flash back and review the sight of Cameron's dusty remains. A few quiet words are breathed. "Sleep well, Crimson Fireman."

Some few moments later she's moving again, following the security protocols in place and entering.

Security protocols, for a non-casual visitor to the Hangar, often mean meeting someone outside and being escorted in — but because Phoenix and the Ferrymen work so closely together, it's become as simple as requesting from Wireless the security code of the day. The fact that the building's been accessed, however, appears as a popup on Grace's computer screen; checking the video feed from the door yields a familiar face, and so the intrusion is not heralded by a manually-triggered alarm. Instead, Grace closes her laptop and tucks it under one arm, heading down too many flights of stairs to greet the new arrival. "Good afternoon," the raven's rasping voice calls once she nears and reaches the ground floor. "To what do we owe the privilege?"

"Intrigue," Cat answers as she meets the woman she came to speak with. "And to reciprocate the knowledge I've gained about you." Her backside leans against the wall near those too many stairs, her eyes resting calmly on the hostess.

One dark brow arches at Cat's remarks. "Has someone been telling tales again?" is the sandstone-dry response. "I assure you, not more than half of them are even slightly true." A wave of Grace's free hand gestures Cat in the direction of the first-floor kitchen. "Can I offer you something? A drink? Have you eaten?"

A quiet chuckle escapes, a slight grin remaining afterward as Cat speaks. "I trust my source. She operates without strings. Anyway, to balance things, I'm one of the Phoenix operatives. Although you might well already have known." Feet carry her into the kitchen behind the former Staff Sergeant, adding "Pepsi's good, thank you, Grace."

"I've got faces for most," Grace admits as she walks into the kitchen, setting the laptop aside on a handy countertop. "We're not quite central, here, but pretty close, so… we're kept in the loop. That way we don't have to second-guess whom we should and shouldn't be doing business with." The explanation is given as the woman fetches a glass from a cupboard and a bottle of Pepsi from the fridge. "You want ice?"

"No, thank you," she answers on sighting the bottle's removal from refrigeration. "It's tricky sometimes. Miss Nichols seems to have come up on the radar a few times." Cat rests her backside against the counter's edge while speaking, affecting a relaxed air in contrast to her stage persona and Ivy League demeanor. Different stages, different demeanors, from Cat.

Grace, on the other hand, doesn't tailor her attitude to a particular appearance, with rare exceptions. Pouring her guest a glass of cola, she returns the Pepsi to the fridge and delivers the beverage to its recipient. The look that comes with it, however, is if anything faintly challenging. "What about her?"

"She's had encounters with other members of the operation, the details of which I'm not clear on, and her own words raised my interest as to things she might have seen or done," Cat supplies. "Speaking of henchwomen, knowing people I know such as Debater and you, with her also being under guardianship of a NYPD member. I thought we should at least compare notes, as it were." Her fingers close around the cola glass and lift it, a slow drink is taken when silence permits such.

Grace takes the time to get herself a glass of water, also sans ice, since she predicts a decent amount of talking impending. Always better with water to drink. She sits down across from Cat, regarding the woman almost sidelong, her own demeanor faintly defensive. "Comparing notes is fine, but it's not to go any further."

"The only thing I've recorded in the organization's records," Cat states as she too settles into a chair and sets the glass down, "is that we have no answer to the question of whether or not she has an ability, her affiliation is law enforcement, her guardian is Judah Demsky, they reside at Le Rivage Apartments, and it's best to share no information with her. I'm wary of her curiosity and imagination." The glass is lifted, she takes another small drink from it, after which she adds "It wasn't lost on me that she spoke of Debater as a henchwoman, despite not knowing either of us operate in our circles and wasn't careful who she repeated that in front of."

"We actually do have an answer to the first now," Grace remarks dryly. "But no. She has no sense of OPSEC. Everyone who's interacted with her so far knows this and knows to keep their mouths shut." A momentary pause, before Grace continues. "Colette volunteered for the Cathedral soup kitchen for some time. She's familiar with several operatives through that means, although she herself isn't aware the Ferrymen exist, much less that her friends are associated with us. 'Henchwoman' is, as I said before, a joke of hers which is both coincidentally accurate and completely wrong."

The woman pauses to wash the words down with water. "She was present at the Chinatown incident, although so far as I know unaware of exactly what happened or who else was involved — aside from myself and Alistair. She hasn't been to visit Trent, and they were friends while she volunteered; that suggests continued lack of knowledge on her part. It also seems she manifested her own Evolved ability during the chaos; something light-related, I suspect."

"That must be quite the shock to her," Cat replies musingly. "They tend to come on as surprises, often when needed most or expected least. Often enough it's both. I was at Yale when mine kicked in. I knew something was different," she relates, "but didn't quite tag myself as Evolved until the Tragedy struck." A pause is taken to imbibe more of the dark liquid, and speaking again follows. "It's understood and agreed what we speak of regarding Miss Nichols stays between us, Grace, unless you consent otherwise directly."

"It was," Grace agrees. She lets those two words, spoken quietly in a voice that does 'soft' poorly, suffice as a reply. Another drink of water is taken as Cat continues, the other woman inclining her head to the lawyer.

While she too partakes of more soda from the glass, mental assessements and recordings go on. Made prominent in that recording is Cat thought of it being interesting Grace hasn't asked of her particular advanced talent, and she debates whether or not to share. When the glass comes back toward the table but doesn't touch, instead held there in her hand just millimeters above the surface, she utters calm remarks. "I never forget my agreements."

"Good," Grace replies, seeming unperturbed by the apparent non sequitur. Treating it like any other comment; difficult to determine whether she actually know anything or not. "Neither do I. Mostly because I try not to make very many of them." Another drink is taken from the water, her gaze remaining steady on Cat.

Her reply is a simple nod of acknowledgment, followed by more drinking, as Cat moves on to another of her quirks. A name other than her own is assigned to Grace, one derived from the sound of the former military woman's voice. She has been privately dubbed Janis.

Silence draws out almost to the point of discomfort, as both women sit there and drink. After a few moments, however, Grace's lips quirk in a lopsided, subtle smile. "So. I take it that subject's covered. Was there anything else you wanted to touch bases on?"

Business is indeed, seemingly at least, handled. Cat moves on to something less dutiful. "You like rock, loud guitars and such, Grace?" she asks.

"Sure," Grace replies easily. She chuckles briefly, the rasping sound muted. "As long as I don't have to try and sing."

"There's a place on the Lower East Side called the Surly Wench. There's a really good guitarist and singer who plays there a few times a week," Cat shares with a spreading grin. "Place is loud and usually crowded, the audience and music is mostly punk with the associated behavior, and the stout is good."

"I don't drink much," Grace points out, referring to alcoholic beverages in this case. She regards Cat's expression for a moment and smiles faintly. "But I'll make sure I stop by sometime."

"I think you could mosh with the best of them, though, Grace," the musical lawyer opines with a laugh. "You'll like the guitarist. She works the audience well, sometimes it's like she can recognize all the regulars on sight among them and know where they stood the last time they were present." "I'll look forward to seeing you."

Another chuckle is voiced, around a sip of water. "I'd think it's a little more important to remember the lyrics and notes," Grace remarks, tone dry. She nods as Cat continues.

"She never forgets those either. I know her pretty well, and I've never seen her look at sheet music. The woman either practices a lot to learn all the tunes she plays so well, or she can just read them once and call them up whenever needed."

"A useful skill," Grace remarks, looking over at the other woman. "Can't say it's one I particularly envy, but useful."

"A thing like that," Cat muses with her voice becoming solemn, "is both a blessing and a curse. Things a person doesn't want to remember are also stuck, and with more clarity than most people would have. I don't blame you for not envying it."

"Even so," Grace agrees, lifting her glass slightly. "I've got enough memories I don't like as it is." The corners of her lips pull back in a wry smile. "And good ones I remember well enough to offset those. So it works out."

"Also true," Cat responds. She takes another drink, a much longer one this time, and drains the glass before standing. "Thank you for the hospitality and the conversation," she offers. "I should be on my way, there's some people I want to try making contact with, to set up some arrangements if possible."

"You're welcome," Grace replies, as she also rises. She inclines her head to the musician. "Feel free to drop by again, and good luck with your 'arrangements'."

December 7th: Show and Tell
December 7th: A Bit Much to Swallow
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