Winslow-Crawford Academy Gala - Men's Room


alister_icon.gif cooper_icon.gif luther_icon.gif oscar_icon.gif sylvester_icon.gif zain_icon.gif

Scene Title Winslow-Crawford Academy Gala - Men's Room
Synopsis A peek into the men's room during the Winslow-Crawford Academy Gala. …Why are you even reading this?
Date September 7, 2018

Red Hook

The bathrooms are generously proportioned, intended to comfortably accommodate a number of patrons for a whole host of functions. Urinals line one wall, and an island of mirrors and sinks cut through the centre, stalls towards the back in doors lined in wood. The light in here is comparatively white and bright, with clean tiles, brass features, ivory porcelain.

The only noise that penetrates the echoing cavern of bodily human needs is the occasional roll of thunder from outside, and the way music and conversation filters through whenever the door swings open and shut.

And that's it. It's a bathroom, guys.

The door slams open, the sounds of footsteps ringing through the empty space. Oscar Nyström makes straight for the sinks, winging on the water that floods cold into the low basin. Fistfuls of paper towels are taken and run beneath it, dabbing then at still wet red wine soaked into the low front of his shirt and down the front of his slacks. Spilled droplets slowly accumulate into a fine puddle around his feet, before he manages to wrangle his temper.

Tossing the paper towels into the basin, the water still pouring merrily from the spout, he tucks a hand into his pocket, extracting his phone. The screen is active with some kind of recording app, and he vaguely dries his hand against his hip before manipulating the screen.

You know, to see if it got all that.

One of the stalls creaks open. A tall, gaunt man whose sallow skins looks as oily as his slicked back hair steps outside, in the process of adjusting his tie with hands that tremble against his will. Sylvester Sandoval, SESA agent, hasn’t been quite himself for some months now, but he hasn’t let lapse the aspects of his appearance that he still maintains control over; impeccably dressed from his navy blue suit jacket all the way down to his polished leather dress shoes, he strikes an impressive figure by virtue of his height alone.

He’d tell you who he’s wearing, but he’s a little past that point in the evening.

Sylvester shuffles across to the sinks and waves one hand under a faucet, and then the other. That’s how these things are supposed to work, right?

“Rough night for you too, huh.”

The bathroom door swings open and Zain slips through. He peeks outside before closing it behind them and standing, back to the exit, heel being used as a stopper. He tugs a paisley kerchief from his pocket and wipes the nervous glow from his brow.

"I believe it might have been a mistake to take part in these activities tonight. There's a woman outside… crazy sticks to her like oatmeal to a Scot's ribs." His accented voice doesn't betray him to that origin, but he does come from somewhere on that God forsaken rock they call England.

Passing a slight smile of recognition to Sylvester, he makes his way to the mirror and begins to straighten his tie. Oscar's plight is noted with a wince and a tsk of his tongue against his teeth. "Bit of bad luck with the wine, eh chap? I'd offer to grab you some club soda from the bar but that woman out there frightens me."

"Jesus, Sandoval."

To Sylvester's credit, it's not his fault that Oscar's nerves are frayed enough that even with the creak of the stall door, the other man's shape appearing next to him still manages to get a guilty startle. But he doesn't try to sneak his phone away, just taps it to idle and slips it back inside his jacket's inner pocket. "Some French girl was running interference for Whitney," he utters, lower when the sound of the door slams open again. "I'll point her out to you when— "

And then a third voice, fast approaching. He takes up his sopping hand towels again, wringing them out, screwing a tight smile into place. "You could call it that," he says. Sure, bad luck. Casually; "Are you talking about the terrorist that commandeered the stage?"

“Ohhhhh my God.” This from Sylvester. It’s a low, guttural sound, half anguish and half exasperation, moaned into the palms cupped over his face, because he still hasn’t gotten the faucet to work. “My worlds are colliding.”

He scrubs at his nose with the back of one hand and reaches out to brace the other against the mirror above the sink. His weight tips forward, resting on his heels and long fingers splayed across the reflective glass. He studies the man staring back at him with vacant brown eyes.

“Is it Mas?” he asks the room. “Please say it’s Mas.”

Like a Fairy Godmother granting a wish, Zain lifts his eyebrows and bows his head to affirm Sylvester's guess. "The Horse is a Metaphor herself, in the Kentucky Fried Crazy flesh," he smirks finishing with his tie and then looking around the room. "You'd think if Miss Whitney was planning a posh do, she would have considered restroom attendants."

There isn't even a basket of little bathroom favors or a jar of mints.


Always ignoring the more important things in favor of twinkle lights and table glitter. "And you can't even get your faucet to work, how are we supposed to maintain civility with unwashed hands?"

Reflected in the mirror, Oscar's expression is telegraphed to Sylvester as what the hell is wrong with you?, silently and discreetly, before bowing his head to once again attend to his pants, his effort to rid himself of staining wine only matched by his effort not to look ridiculous doing it. It's a tough balance to maintain, but everything he is wearing cost a small fortune, comparatively, along with the money he spent to get into this function.

Oscar then reaches over, and turns on Sylvester's water. There you go, big guy.

His attention turns to Zain, then, curiosity low key but piqued all the same. "She tried to hijack my radio show a few months back," he says. "I'm not sure how she's allowed in public without a handler."

It is with a slap of his palm against the door that Thomas Cooper announces his arrival to the men currently occupying the restroom. His attention is still a little on the commotions outside the room, as he pushes his way in. Pausing to watch something going on and wincing at whatever it is. Pale eyes turn inward finally, only to spot a tall familiar figure. Ah, fuck me… he thinks, while he says outloud. “Wow… not exactly who’d I’d expect at a gala for a school.” Honestly any of them…

“How ya doin’, Sandoval?” It’s offered pleasantly(?) from the other agent. He ducks past, spotting Oscar and his unfortunate accident and then Zain. Squinting a bit at the later, as if trying to place a face. However, neither is addressed, cause… dude… seriously… He needs to take a leak.


Sylvester blinks, once, shifting his focus from his own reflection to—

Thomas Cooper’s, apparently. It’s around the same time that he becomes aware of the fact the faucet is now on, and begins rubbing his hands together beneath the tepid flow of water for lack of anything better to do with them.

“Hi,” he says, voice Sahara flat-and-dry.


At some point during this extended exchange, it occurs to him that splashing some water on his face might be a good idea, so he does.

The men's room door dramatically flies open, and Alister, in his red velvet suit and black silk cape comes blowing in like the wind. He was going to use the bathroom, but then he spots Sylvester and immediately points at the man. "You're…" Alive, but he doesn't finish his sentence, he instead just crosses his arms and stares at the man judgingly. "Well, hello."

Cooper barely registers to Zain, it's not a face that he recognizes and therefore he's probably not someone that touches on his social circle. So the man receives a wisp of a smile as greeting. Then it's back to studying himself in the mirror.

He's in the middle of smoothing a hand up the the part in his hair, making sure none of the finer bits have come out of place when Alister walks in. Zain arches a single eyebrow as he studies the man’s reflection in the mirror. No need to turn around.

"Mister Black, your suit looks…" like you're auditioning for the part of Dracula in a high school play "… marvelous. Such a bold and daring color."

Sylvester scrutinizes his options and not Alister’s choice of evening wear. If Cooper wasn’t in already in the room, the solution to this particular problem would be much clearer. Unfortunately, he is, and there’s very little the SESA agent can do now except fantasize about how good it would feel to get both of his hands around Alister’s throat, bend him over the nearest trash can, and just squeeze until he stops moving.

There’s a window, cracked open to alleviate some of the late summer humidity hanging in the air, roughly one foot high and three feet long. Also not an option.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” is what he eventually settles on, as he’s wiping the residual water from his hands with the front of his suit jacket.

A flush from the urinals is a reminder that Cooper is there… and he has ears. Zipper is pulled up and given an extra tug as he observes everyone. “Oh, Mr. Black. Your reputation precedes you. I see you have graced the Safe Zone with your presence.” He gives the man’s attire a once over. Unlike Zain, Cooper tends not to filter a lot… maybe a little, “Wow. Dig the outfit, very Interview with a Vampire.” He looks at the others with a lift of brows to see if they agree with that assessment. “Or you know, Three mouseketeers.. No wait… musketeers.” He waves off the thought.

Cooper offers Alister a grin, “I’d shake your hand, but I just got done takin’ a piss. If you’ll excuse me.”

Ducking past everyone toward the sinks, Thomas give Oscar a nod as he ends up at a sink between the radio host and Zain. It is the fancier (or would that be sanely fancier?) of them all that gets his attention. “Is that hair by Raquelle Cambria?” Thomas ask with polite curiosity of Zain, as he proceeds to wash his hands. The tension in the room hasn’t slipped past his notice really, which might be why he is so vocal.

Luther is the next to make his way into the men's room, which upon finding it to be somewhat crowded with activity, looks to each occupant in quick scan of the faces for familiarity if any. He'd dismiss the bunch, but it's hard to dismiss the sight of Alister Black. But maybe the man of Staten Island won't remember him. Add to it the tension within the space and he can't help but arch angled brows up. Briefly.

"Excuse me," Luther rumbles out, stepping around with care taken to not actually bump elbows with anyone. Partly because his one arm is in a cast and black sling holding it to his mid-torso, obscured by black suit jacket. The Raytech Security Chief makes his way to an open sink, bending to rinse off fingers and simply practice the basics of hygiene here.

So red wine is hard to get out of clothing, and Oscar was going to give up.

He finds himself remaining in place, however, standing at his chosen sink and slowly cleaning his hands of excess water, watching through the mirror reflection the varied shapes coming in through the door. Alister is an eye catching figment, familiar to Oscar in the way certain figures tend to be — entirely one sided. Watches, as some doofus lists medias that may or may not also have capes, running interference without realising.

Good thing this is a spacious bathroom, Oscar keenly aware of how this private space has quickly become public. He's taking his time, tuned out of compliments about hair going on next to him, and keeping track of Sylvester's long limbed shaped in his periphery, before he switches on a smile and joins the conversation.

"Alister Black?" he inquires, with far more enthusiasm than he feels. He steps forward, professional ease and journalistic nosiness embodied, in spite of things like his damp black suit, the tell-tale spread of wine stain low on his shirt which he closes off from view with one hand buttoning his jacket, while his other — clean! — palm goes out, questing for a handshake, as if entirely oblivious to the predatory crackle of energy from Sylvester to Alister. "I didn't expect to run into you — here, anyway. My name is Oscar Nyström, I'm with WVMA. You called in, recently."

"It's not," Zain replies all too quickly. Mostly because he has no idea who Raquelle Cambria is. With a final touch to smooth his eyebrows and a quick smile into the mirror to make sure there's nothing in his teeth, he slips away from the sink. It's getting a little sardine-y and without a basket of things to pick through, there's no more reason to be loitering.

"Excuse me gents," he announces in departure, "it's getting a bit crowded for my comfort. See you all at the bar." Then, more to himself as he peeks out the door, "Hopefully that insane woman has been leashed or escorted from the premise."

"Hello, gentlemen." Alister gives a nod to each person who acknowledges him, but takes Oscar's hand in particular. "You should always expect me at a gala. And did I? I'm a very busy… oh, that Oscar. Yes, it's unfortunate what happened to that man." he says 'that man' like someone who clearly can't remember that man's name. "It was an interesting discussion. I didn't expect to meet you in a bathroom."

Sylvester should buy Oscar a fruit basket.

Is that what you’re supposed to do to thank people? He isn’t sure.

He isn’t sure about a lot of things. A c t u a l l y. How to show gratitude, whether or not to acknowledge Cooper beyond passing, who the Hell Luther is, or how to extricate himself from the bathroom without drawing attention.

Fortunately, the training he received from the FBI when he used to belong to that branch of the U.S. government kicks in around the same time Alister is pretending (don’t lie) not to remember who Oscar is.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sylvester says in response to Zain, a hand at the small of the other man’s back as he follows his lead out of the bathroom.

Oscar's smile is constant and bland, as is the handshake he's roped Alister into, and then pantomimes some awareness that people are exiting around them by physically steering Alister around with a friendly hand to the elbow. "Just some kids playing a prank," he assures, as to what happened, tracking Sylvester's exit out of the bathroom without actually looking.

"And yeah, let me let you get back to what you were doing — but you should absolutely get in contact with my studio," he's saying, "if you ever want to continue our conversation that was so rudely interrupted. I hear you have a lot of amazing ideas for our city."

That hand claps again onto Alister's elbow, shifting to extricate himself from the conversation in the same movement.

Hey, hey, Alister just chooses not to remember the bigot who died! "I look forward to meeting again. I definitely have a lot of ideas, but little funding, so any publicity is useful." He raises a hand to wave to Sylvester. "Enjoy the gala."

Wait… did Cooper hear right? He watches Sylvester and Zain out of the corner of his eye as he grabs paper towel to dry off his hands. “Uh oh… “ He’ll have to move quick, once he gets out of there. This means he’ll have to follow the pair out the door. However, he does need to get to the seer before Sylvester does.

“‘Scuse me,” Thomas murmurs as he paces behind Zain and Sylvester. Once out the door, he’ll veer off and make a quick bee-line for his date of the evening. Wouldn’t his fellow agent love to see that.

A silent eavesdropper, Luther busies himself with doing his own business of washing up. He does, however, remark with a low rumble at Zain's back for the man's commentary, "She's not insane, she's a precog." But his words might be lost over the sound of the faucet's running water. However much he's willing to continue overhearing of Oscar and Alister's interaction is set aside as he follows Cooper out. Apparently they share a common goal of getting to the target before she really winds up in trouble. They just don't know it yet.

And Now Back to the Show

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