An Accountant's Wisdom
Roleplaying Log: An Accountant's Wisdom
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Bastien gives Rictor some sound advice about handcuffs.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: February 22, 2019
IC Location: Shakedown - Rictor's Office
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 23 Feb 2019 15:58
Rating & Warnings:
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

Rictor's office is…well, let's just say it's strange that it's the office of someone with earthquake powers considering how many precarious piles there are. He's bent over his too-big-for-the-office desk, frowning at paperwork. On his desk is a bag from a local dollar store, and a package from Redbubble with something half-sticking out of it. He's frowning at something on the laptop screen, then frowning down at the paperwork. Then some brow-furrowing. Then a half-grunt.

* * *

There is a light staccato rap of knuckles on the doorframe before Sebastien steps inside just far enough to lean his shoulder against the jamb. He's dressed in a plaid shirt and khakis again, a maroon cardigan left unbuttoned and a pencil impeccably sharp is propped over his ear.

"It's Friday night." Cortez starts off by pointing out the obvious. "Shouldn't you be out in the club 'getting jiggy with it'." Bastien uses the term uncomfortably, like a parent trying out the lingo of the cool kids as they try to fit in.

* * *

"They aren't going to need me for a couple of hours yet. I have enough staff on. Come in," Rictor motions Bastien inwards. He's still frowning pretty hard at the paper. "How does it look out there?" The chair across from his desk is stacked high with boxes of straws and napkins. There's not really any surface in Shakedown's back end that doesn't serve a dual purpose.

For his part, he's wearing his usual 'work night manager' outfit, which means dark wash jeans and a black collared shirt with pockets. It's rolled up to the elbow and the first few buttons are undone.

* * *

"Um." It seems to be his standard answer for everything, including the invitation to come inside. Sebastien is still a little awkward at being alone with Rictor, but he seems to rally past that as he steps tentatively further in.

"I am perhaps the worst person to ask. We are not at capacity?" There, at least one thing he can speak certainly of, but he isn't quite adept at reading the temperature of the club just yet after his short time of employment here. "Distressing news?" He asks of the paper that is currently causing Rictor frown lines.

* * *

"Not surprising. We have only been at capacity on…New Year's, I think? At least since I've owned this place. But things have been getting a bit slower. I think the humans are staying away." And as much as the community might rally around Shakedown, there's only so many metas who like dance clubs. Rictor scratches the side of his head, then holds up the paper. It's a registration form. "I don't think I have a choice."

* * *

"Oh, that." Sebastien actually seems a little relieved when Rictor shows him the form, "As your tax advisor, I suggest you do." He steps up to the chair after his turtle like creep into the room, knitting his hands together momentarily as he sees the seat is taken by bar implements. "Um, may I?" He makes a mime of removing them, so he can sit as he explains his position, but for now he waits for permission.

* * *

Rictor makes a hand motion that seems to suggest, 'obviously, dump it on the floor.' "I'm not going to go quietly. But if I don't register, they'll take the club from me at best. At worst, they'll arrest or deport me. Or arrest me, and then deport me." He sighs. His shoulders hunch. "I am going to do it," he wags a finger, "But I am going to make very clear that I am doing it under duress." He reaches into the dollar store bag and pulls out a pair of plastic handcuffs from a child's police playset. He tosses it in front of Bastien.

* * *

Bastien doesn't just 'dump' the items, but he starts lifting them off and stacking them neatly as his boss and erstwhile dating interest explains his positioning on Registration. "Yes, exactly. You're a prominent mutant business owner, with a potentially devastating power."

He settles in the chair like it's full of rocks by the way he's shifting and then reshifting. "Is…this how you're planning to protest? With dime store novelty bondage." Bastien pulls the pencil down from his ear, using that to thread through one of the cuffs and lift them to dangle, like a detective afraid to touch evidence. "Or are you implementing a new work uniform to increase business?"

* * *

Rictor folds his hands in front of him and bites the edge of his lip. "Protest," he says, with a gesture to the cuffs. "Too over the top? I just…don't want to walk up there and hand in my paperwork quietly. I want to make it clear that I feel I have no choice at all." He rubs the back of his neck. "It's bullshit. All of it. I mean, I know I already have a file. I know I'm not going to be telling them anything they don't already know. But…" it's the principle.

* * *

"With or without the ass-less chaps?" Bastien tries to joke, but there is a color springing to his cheeks the moment the words are out of his mouth so that probably takes away some of the potency of it. He tilts the pencil to the plastic loop slides back down its length to clatter back to the desktop. "So the grand plan is to show up at the registration office, wearing these, as you turn in your form?"

* * *

And this is where a literal facedesk happens. Rictor slides down, forehead against his form. When he speaks, the word is a muffled, "Yes." He stays there for a moment, then slowly lifts his head and then sprawls out against the desk, fingers hooking on the far side, cuffs in between the two arms. "I was thinking of a gag as well."

* * *

There is a wince to one of Bastien's eyes as Rictor's forehead hits the desk in obvious show of sympathy, even if it gets lost on the intended target. "Then I suggest you cuff yourself in front, so you can remove the gag if they ask you any questions. Otherwise it could get awkward. A bigger statement would be made if the press was made aware prior." His thumb nudges up the bridge of his glasses, "That way you make more than some poor desk clerk uncomfortable."

* * *

Rictor stays sprawled out and lifts his head. "Do you think the press would care if I told them?" That sounds like a serious question. His fingers flex against the edge of the desk, "I don't know that I have that kind of profile. Or if I don't, do I want to?" He pulls himself up and eyes the cuffs. "It's a stupid idea, isn't it?"

* * *

"I think the press would jump on covering any protest, no matter how small, because they are after sensationalism and headlines." Bastien slips the pencil back over his ear.

As for his opinion, he tries to form it as diplomatically as possible. "Either way it is going to give you negative and positive exposure. You'll get attention from those that support your protest, you'll get attention from those that just want to Register quietly, and then you also risk the militants from both sides. I think if you really want to do something big? Order about a hundred more pairs and throw an Anti-Registration party here at the club and hand them out like party favors."

His hands press together between his knees. "But in my opinion, yes. Yes it is. But then again I am already Registered."

* * *

"I think that would confuse people and think it was a different kind of party, Bastien," says Rictor with a drawl to his voice and a grin twitching up at the corners. "But yes, I've been thinking about that. A sit-in, to protest. But that might just make us more of a target."
He stands, paces as much as he can around the small space. He trips on a box in the process of pacing, then kicks the box labeled 'Swizzle Sticks (1000 Count)' under his desk. "This whole thing is about having no good options. If I want to keep fighting the war, I have to lose this battle."

* * *

As the box goes skittering, Bastien ducks down to fish it out, which is a convenient excuse to obscure the warmth in his cheeks from being apparent when Rictor calls him out on the mixed messages. "Ah, yes, well. There is still another week you can hold out on principle but that is very Sun Tzu of you."

* * *

"If I hold out to the last minute, then I won't get any attention," says Rictor. He leans against the wall, digs one hand into his pocket, then knots the other through his hair. "Which sounds…aie. But you know what I mean. It's going to be a mess at the deadline." He huffs a breath. "What was it like when you went?"

* * *

Deeming, degrading, embarrassing. "Like getting your driver's license only instead of a vision test, they give you a blood test. Agents as bored and as under qualified as the DMV." Bastien has grown quieter with his answer, finding a bit of lint that's pilling on the hem of his light sweater to pluck at. "And I half expected to get a tomato thrown at me outside the center from those who are biased against us."

* * *

"Just when we think we're making progress," says Rictor with a heavy sigh. "The people who hate us, you mean. The people who are afraid of us." His jaw clenches. "I go back and forth between wanting to talk to these people to make them see I'm just a person and…" he raises a hand and twitches his fingers. The air around them smells faintly of ozone. The plastic cuffs rattle on his desk, "…wanting to shake the meat off their bones." He drops the hand after a moment and the shaking steadies. He looks suddenly very tired.

* * *

Bastien's hand instinctively goes to rest on top of the various stacks on Rictor's desk the moment he can smell the change in the air, tensing gathering in his shoulders as he prepares to ride out the little burst of irritation but doesn't know how quickly it will quell. He looks relieved the moment it settles. "Come, Pobrecito, let's get you a drink. What's the point of owning a bar, otherwise?"

* * *

Rictor looks at his hand and flexes his fingers. Then he presses a thumb into the middle of his palm and wrings his hands together. "You don't drink, Bastien. I feel strange drinking by myself." He smiles sheepishly. "I'm sorry. Did that startle you?"

* * *

"There is a whole bar full of people that will be drinking with you, so you are never truly alone." Bastien slides forward in his chair until he's perched on just the edge. "I'm sure I will get used to it." He circumvents the question neatly. "Does it make your hands hurt? Come…" He makes a gesture for Rictor to reach his hands across the desk.

* * *

"Ah, no," says Rictor. He reaches his hand out anyway. "It feels a bit strange, but it doesn't hurt. Mostly it feels strange when I hold back. When I let it build and then release the energy, it feels…" he wobbles his head back and forth, "…good." There's a cheeky smile that follows.

* * *

Bastien takes one of Rictor's hands between his own averting his gaze from the cheeky smile as he turns the palm towards the ceiling. He starts rubbing his thumbs into the center of it, then radiating out with the sliding motion to the fingers. "I could make an apt comparison but both you and I know I might explode from the resulting embarrassment." Because Rictor has the mutant power equivalent of blue balls.

* * *

"That was the comparison I was alluding to, yes," says Rictor. He's never been one to shy away from innuendo, though he's not one to bring it up on his own very often. "Fortunately, the discomfort doesn't last long after I pull it back in." He watches what Bastien is doing and slowly flexes his fingers. After a moment, he says, "Why is everything so complicated?" The fingers close, giving the other man's hand a soft squeeze.

* * *

Bastien looks more surprised by the squeeze to his hand than he did the minor quake and his hands slither away from the soft grasp. "Because without complications, life would have no color. And I, for one, refuse to live a life merely in shades of grey. How boring." He gives a bit of a timorous smile as he stands. "I should be going."

* * *

Rictor lets the hand slide from his grasp. He swallows, smiles flickeringly, then nods. "And…I should get out there. They probably need my help by now." He clears his throat. "Thank you, Bastien. For your counsel. No handcuffs."

* * *

"But of course." Bastien adjusts his glasses one last time on the way to the door, "Though perhaps you should keep them, you know, for emergency purposes." His quiet laughter follows him out.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License