Advice from the Kin

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:15 Pacific Time on Mon Oct 26 2015.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.03 and steady, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (93% full).

The Hub: Main Floor

The main floor of 'the Hub' is a spacious, almost sprawling room, with a two-story high ceiling and a large loft that looks out over the room itself, accessed via a winding metal staircase set at the opposite end from the heavy security door. One side of the floor is completely open, with a bank of windows facing north and offering a brilliant view of the city, especially at night. The other side contains a series of doors and doorways that lead into other rooms, large and small. One is clearly a kitchen (a very nice large kitchen with its own island and eating area), one is a bathroom, and one a repurposed conference room with a smaller central table than likely existed before, and comfortable rolling chairs that have clearly been reclaimed from various goodwill sources. Other rooms serve as storage, with one standing out as a well maintained server room, from which the local Walker server, various databases, and hardware responsible for the block's free wifi can be accessed.

The open floor itself sports several areas clearly designated for various purposes, though none have been walled off from the rest in any real fashion. One contains a comfortable, beat-up couch and armchairs arranged in a semi-circle around a large flatscreen TV and coffee table, another is a bank of multiple computers, each with their own desk and office chair, while a third is a modest exercise area mostly consisting of an open space of floor covered in a cushioned mat and several free weights. A number of monitors have been mounted on the wall next to the security door; the largest displays the area immediately on the other side of the door, with another showing the interior of the private elevator. The third and largest is split into sections, with one section dedicated to the sub-basement, another to the roof, and the others switching routinely between various parts of the interior and exterior of Maxwell Tower.

Kavi seems lost in the music as the man enters, but looks up as Collins crosses the room. He continues playing for a few seconds more, but then lets the strings fall silent. "Hello?" he says, though he doesn't rise from where he sits at the edge of the couch, nor does he set the guitar aside. His tone is cautious, almost more than curious.

A handspan over six feet, this tall man with warm, brown skin has eyes so dark the irises are nearly black. His dark hair is shaved on the sides, save for an intricate pattern reminiscent of tribal art, centered on a narrow mohawk a couple inches in length. Though he takes the razor to his scalp with some frequency, he's less conscientious about his facial hair, and seems to have about a week's worth of growth. Each ear bears multiple piercings, some studs, some more interesting designs, like the dragon that climbs the outer edge on the right. With his high cheekbones and delicate features, he's almost too pretty, almost beautiful, despite the external acts of rebellion.

He wears a black shirt of heavy cotton, the high collar tight against his neck. Buckles adorn the shoulders, three on each side, forming epaulettes, while others mark the long cuffs, and replace the buttons that would run from throat to waist. The shirt laces down the back, pulling close against against his lean frame, accentuating the long lines. The tails of the shirt hang down over black denim, almost hiding the ends of the chains that dangle at his hip. Like everything else he wears, his boots are a solid black, except for the metal of the buckles.

"Mr...." Collins is still fishing for the name at the greeting, but does finally come up with it: "Bhaskar, wasn't it?" There's a hint of apology in his tone to match the mildly sheepish duck of his head (just a hint, but it's there) with the voiced question mark. He keeps his course for the fridge in the kitchen, but adjusts his body language to maintain the conversation if that's a thing desired.

Julian Collins is a slender man who manages 5'10" when he's got a heel on his shoes - which he usually does. He keeps his dark brown hair brutally short, just a skoche over a buzzcut, and wears a seemingly-perpetual day's worth of stubble that hints a touch darker around the mouth. He has dark eyes that, if he's in an ill mood, could come off as invasively intense but more often add warmth to his visage to go with the hint of a smile that he prefers.

Being anglo-white, he favors high-contrast attire that makes the most of his high-contrast complexion. Today it's a navy blazer, worn open over a white shirt and patterned grey tie, matched with light grey wool slacks. Shoes and belt are black leather, polished to a shine and kept immaculate.

The 13-year-old Philodox enters from the door leading up to the roof, looking flushed and sweaty, pushing unkempt, too-long black hair out of his scarred face. He comes down the stairs quickly, at a kind of limping jog, only narrowly avoiding a nasty spill when his feet get tangled down near the bottom.

This kid is heavily scarred; it looks like he's been through a war, though he can't be much more than twelve or thirteen years old. He's only a few inches over five feet tall, skinny and pale, with long black hair that's just past his narrow shoulders. Thick scar tissue rips down the left side of the kid's thin face (his eye on that side is blind white), while another line runs crookedly across the bridge of his beaky nose. There are pockmarks from old shrapnel wounds as well, and half of his right ear has been torn off at some point. His eyes (the good one's dark brown) are deep-set under thick black eyebrows. The kid limps a bit when he walks, favoring his right leg, and his left hand is missing its smallest finger and half of its ring finger. And marking the right side of his neck, just under his jaw, are three small teardrop-shaped scars, easily unnoticed.

The sheer amount of violence that this barely-adolescent youth has obviously experienced is troubling enough, but the aura of tightly-controlled rage is enough to make most mortals blench.

He's typically dressed in jeans and t-shirt and sneakers, typical casual kid-wear, with a grey hooded jacket for outdoors. Apart from the footwear, his clothing is all a little bit too big on him, but one might imagine that he'll grow into it in a year or so.

The question seems to take some thought, but Kavi answers with a nod, starting to rise just as Salem arrives. He pauses, holding the guitar by the neck, and looks between the boy and the kitchen. "I-- That's... I think so," he says aloud. He sets the guitar in the case, though without the care Salem might expect, and starts to follow after Collins. "There's lasagna. And there's an-- something else, with egg and pepper. The woman brought them by."

"Mostly just looking for something to drink," Collins confesses, mostly to the interior of the fridge. He reaches in the next moment and comes away with a can of Dr. Pepper which he opens one-handed. A loud hiss-crack echoes among the white goods in the fridge, dulled beyond by the open architecture. "The woman?" Collins asks, tilting his head, seeking clarification.

"He means Rina," Salem says, limping into the kitchen after Kavi. "I'm assuming, anyway. Rina's... very Italian, in terms of food. And supplying it." The boy's smile is tight; though he looks like he's just spent a great deal of energy, he still seems antsy.

Kavi glances back toward Salem when he speaks and nods agreement. "Yes," he says aloud. "Her. She-- She seems to bring food every time she visits. I don't-- There's a lot. If you're hungry." His shoulders rolls and pull back, trying to excise the tension in his posture.

Collins chuckles, ruefully. "Yes," he agrees, nodding. "Very Italian." He nods in Salem's direction at that last, concurrence and repeating it for emphasis. A long swig of mystery-flavored soda is extracted from the can in his hand. "Forgive the blunt question," he says, indicating Kavi now, "but weren't you two a thing? Or did I read that wrong?"

Salem gives his head a little shake, lips thinned into a grimace, then goes to fetch himself a glass and some ice water.

The tension returns in full, and Kavi looks aside. "I--" he starts, but breaks off and takes a few steps away. "They--" he starts again, but glances at Salem as though seeking corroboration before he continues. "They were, but I'm not him. I-- I don't remember his life."

Well, now he's stepped in it. Collins blinks, clearly not expecting the answer he got. He has no recovery from that, so he just gapes another full second before the brain catches up with reality. "Wow," is what comes out first, perhaps the first word on top of the queue. "That's... as in... amnesia? Or..." Or what, exactly? What else could it be? But he's savvy enough to leave the possibility open, apparently. "I had no idea, I'm sorry." He looks back to the fridge. "I'm guessing that she's not taking it so well, then."

Salem gulps down about a third of a glass of water, then tops it off. Thirsty kid. "The Fae stole his memories," he says to Collins, "just as they stole my--" He grimaces, nose wrinkling. "I still really don't know what to call it." He pauses, eyeing the kin, head tilted a little. "Jack Salem, Adren Philodox, by the way. I think Mouse introduced us, once, but I was quite a bit older, then."

Kavi turns to lean against the counter where he can see the others, letting Salem's explanation stand. "She's not," he adds, after. "She-- She pretends she's okay, but." He lifts his shoulders in a shrug rather than continue, and his fingers grip the edge of the counter.

Collins frowns at Salem's explanation, finding the 'or' in this case to be less than encouraging. "The Fae... as in... fairies? This sounds decidedly like there's a story here." He pulls another sip, nodding to Kavi, his face is contemplative. "Is there a prognosis?"

"Fairies, yes." Salem's tone is distinctly sour. "Prognosis? No. Kavi doesn't remember anything. /I/ don't even remember much of what actually happened in our dealings with them. At a guess, some kind of deal was made, and we both got fucked." He gulps down water.

"Some things are... familiar," Kavi adds, pushing off from the counter and hooking his thumbs in his pockets. "Most things are... Are new. Distant." He shrugs again, and then nods in the direction of the guitar on the couch. "Some things-- My hands remember, and it feels right. It's not something I have to learn. It just is."

Collins nods, once, listening to both and frowning. "Well," he says, finally. "I'm sure you know that if you need anything and it's not readily at hand, you can call on me. Part of my job is making sure everyone here's needs are seen to." Another swig. "I'm Julian," he says, to Kavi in particular, "Julian Collins. Mr. Maxwell hired me to manage this building, see to its residents' needs."

Salem takes another sip of water, then, restless, pours the remainder out into the sink and moves away, keeping within conversational distance but pacing around nonetheless.

"Julian," Kavi repeats, testing the sound. He nods, giving Salem another glance as the philodox starts to move. "Thank you," he adds, refocusing on Collins. "I don't-- I'm not sure what... or how--" He breaks off, frustration showing in his expression, in the way his hand runs back along the shaved side of his head. "If you need help-- If I can do something?"

"I can look into it," Collins says, nodding. "If you'd like. There's always some vacancy or other. We should see what sorts of things you remember how to do, get you back to work at something you enjoy if possible." He looks to Salem now, "Is someone handling your case that I should know about, before agreeing to anything like this?"

Salem pauses and drags fingers back through his hair. "I'm... still considering my options," he confesses. "It's not just the fact of... navigating society as an obvious minor, but a minor with..." He gestures at his badly scarred face with a hand that's missing a finger and a half. "As Mouse has pointed out, it's very... attention-getting."

Kavi's guitar rests in the open case on the couch, but the trio, rather than nearby, form a rough triangle in the kitchen. The galliard repeats the frustrated gesture, fingernails raking against his scalp. As Salem speaks, however, he frowns and aborts the gesture, dropping his hand to his side. "It is," he says. "But I didn't-- I didn't notice. It didn't seem... unusual."

Collins nods, once. "Yes, DCF would be all over you in a heartbeat. We'll need to get you some records, and a legal guardian, just in case you get picked up. Which is why I wondered if anyone was handling that. I can make inquiries. I'm not as well connected here, yet, as I'd like to be, but I do know some people and with the right plausible deniability, I can get you through legal hurdles well enough."

Rina lets herself in, along with the smell of something very Italian and very delicious. She carries it in some sort of special casserole-toting contraption, canvas with straps. She's starting to look a little better, a little less thin and sleepless. And she actually smiles at the sound of voices, the expression still lingering when she reaches the kitchen.

Salem gives Kavi a quick, tight little smile before turning back to Collins. "An official, legal identity would be useful, I agree. I've actually been without for a number of years now." He looks over at Rina, studying her carefully for a moment and giving her another tight smile, before turning back to the male kin. "It's not just the fact of the scars, though. I'm concerned about someone recognizing me by them. Or seeing them, remembering the man I was, with the /same/ marks, and wondering."

Kavi is watching Salem, listening closely, a twitch at his brow with each unspoken thought of his own. His attention shifts at Rina's arrival, and his posture straightens. He nods to her, a silent greeting, and offers a cautious smile.

Collins nods, again. "I'll look into what we'd need to set you up, then." He turns in the direction of the loft stairs, as Rina comes down, "Miss Vencenzo," he hails, before returning to Salem's concerns. "That's... possible, I suppose. But they'd have to be willing to consider the notion that you'd discovered a legitimate anti-aging cream, or the fountain of youth. More likely they would suspect the scarring to be ritualistic for some reason. The scars also look a little different on so young a face than they do on the older you. So... it would take someone very familiar with you, and familiar with the fact that something like this was even possible. That's a very small list, I would hope?"

Rina's smile eases a touch at each greeting, until finally Collins nearly gets the full impact. She falls into the seriousness of the current conversation a moment later, though, as she takes her covered dish over to the counter and punches buttons on the oven. "Most of the people *on* the list, though, would probably understand that more things are possible than Horatio thinks, yadda yadda yadda," she observes.

"Yes, but--" Salem cuts himself off, looking flustered, off-balance. He drags fingers back through his hair again, messing it up worse than it was, and exhales sharply. "You're probably right." This is directed toward both kinfolk.

There's another twitch at Kavi's brow as he tries to follow the conversation. He tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, first one side and then the other, and then looks over to Salem. "What if they did? Most people wouldn't, right? People would-- A child with scars would draw attention, but. But most people-- Even if they had seen you, before... this? Most people wouldn't connect the you, now, to that. But who would? And... And what would that mean?"

"And I'm not saying it's /not/ a potential problem," Collins adds, quickly backtracking a bit. "Just that you have to figure the odds are low. Unless the list of intimate enemies you have is unusually extensive, anyway." He's leaving the possibility open. "Whatever your needs are, though, I'm happy to provide however I can."

Rina turns to lean her backside against the counter, hands on the edge. She watches, particularly keeping an eye on Salem.

The Philodox nods to Collins. "As I, ah, as I said before, I've been considering my options."

Kavi continues to look between the others, backing up to lean against the counter, unconsciously mirroring Rina's posture.

Collins nods again. "Not to worry. I'm at your disposal. Anyone who works here knows how to reach me." He takes another swig from the Dr. Pepper and then toasts the present company. "I should, however, be making my way home. Good to re-meet you two," he says to Kavi and Salem. "Ms. Vencenzo," he nods to Rina, and then heads for the exit, soda in hand - still looking around at the Hub, as if to verify that all is in its place before he mentally clocks out.

"Night," Rina offers, looking preoccupied as she watches him go.

"Night," Salem echoes. "And thank you."

"Good night," Kavi adds, offering a nod as well before he pushes off the counter again, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

Rina gives Salem a slightly worried look. "Should I just go? You, ah, need y'space?"

Salem shakes his head. "Yes, but I think I'm going to retire for the night." He scratches absently at a big scar on his forearm. "Will you two be all right?"

Kavi's gaze follows Collins as he leaves, and he draws in a breath at Salem's question. He doesn't answer, but instead looks to Rina for hers.

"We're good," Rina answers, after a glance to Kavi. She gives Salem a quiet smile. "Get some sleep."

Salem gives something that vaguely resembles a Boy Scout salute before heading up to the loft and one of the guest bedrooms there.