Sharing with Pen

Grace
She doesn't want to tell Pen anything over the phone. Nothing, save the address to meet her -- an apartment complex across the street from UC Denver. Cheap little student lofts, this place. Reeks of skunky smoke and student loan debt in the place, but it's where Grace wants to meet.

She sounds tired on the phone. Restless. Laden in her words is a sense of importance, if not what exactly is important.

It's up to Pen to decide to come by, but she can probably guess as to why.

Pen
Pen does not try to get information over the phone (mistrustful and archaic creature that she is), but is glad to meet Grace at the address she specifies. When she shows up, it is with her hair loose and in a burnish of curls, bangs certainly in need of a trim rakishly slashing over one eye, a deep orange tunic and over that deep orange (copper, bronze) tunic a velvet pull over of some midnighted benighted blue, something that looks like Millais would have sold his happiness to paint. It's belted low at the hips; her belt buckle is some Art Nouveau thing of beauty, metal and complicated and made-by-hand with Hermetic symbols within it. Her boots are combat boots. There's probably a knife in one and a wand in the other. As soon as she is at the address, she knock knock knocks.

Grace
The door clicks and opens, and inside is a tiny living space, all drab and dusty -- and a Grace. Of course she is there to open the door, to usher Pen inside. There's a dining table with a single chair, and a box on the other side that has Grace's (new) laptop and (new) phone on it, by far the most expensive items in the place. A bed in one corner, a tiny kitchenette in another. A door that's probably a bathroom, crammed with a place to wash up in.

Nobody really lives here. It has the quality of a still-life, and stale air.

"Hey, Pen. I figured out some things about the Alex situation you should know," she says, once the door is closed.

Pen
Pen steps over the threshold, assurance and poise (reserve [reserved]). Of course Grace's appearance was met with the Spring-warmth of a smile in lines around her eyes and mouth which stays just as long as Spring warmth does too, because she is well aware this is no easy social call. Even before Grace mentions Alex's name, she knows and is prepared. There is a sense around Pen of someone readied, focused, intent (ardor). After that touch of warmth, Pen glances around the apartment. It's an assessing glance, and an alert one. Who knows what may lurk? Readied, focused, intent -- and daring does not mean foolish.

Still. Pen inhales deeply when Grace voices the matter at hand. She does not sit without invitation, but she does not seem ill-at-ease standing.

"I thought the topic would be Alex; what news?" There is a tension here, and a hope: "Is it good?"

Grace
Pen's presence in this place is like that of a sapphire among sand. She stands out. She's a splash of color this place truly lacks. This is Grace's idea of interior decorating, which is essentially bleak and functional. Why spend the money on multiple rooms when they aren't needed? Why paint the walls, what purpose does it serve?

"He's alive. That's the good news," she says, and wanders over to the box at the table, in order to straddle it, and props her head up on her hands, elbows on the table.

"Bad news. They reconstructed his knee, so that means he's not completely out of physical danger. They are subjecting him to daily 'counselling' which I can only take to mean they're attempting to brainwash him. He's being held in a Primium-lined room, with some books on science, probably in the hopes that he'll convert," Grace says, and rolls her eyes.

"But, considering they're keeping him there, it means they're still afraid of him."

Pen
"Hmm." Pen places one finger to her mouth, pensive (intent) rather than troubled. Her other hand wraps around her ribs, gives her elbow something to rest on. The thoughtful posture is spare, the gesture economical; the sleeves are not economical. They hang like a medievalist's might. "Did you discover anything else; about how many guard him or the name - " - the smoke-wisp of rue in her voice, staining her tone as years and years of candle flame stained the Sistine chapel, might tell Grace that Pen knows this would be a lucky long-shot " - of his counselor?"

Grace
"They didn't use names. Alex is being referred to as Subject 88123-123, himself. No notes regarding a Doctor Soandso, unfortunately. I do know the room number. It's Ward 2, Room 7. Which, why do they need so many rooms?"

She sighs, continues on after a pause.

"I did find out something of interest though. They're doing emergency drills here soon. Day and night. Would be a good time to strike, I think -- a time when their routine is broken?"

Pen
"Yes it would." Pen does not move now; steadied, steadying, considerate. Her eyes stay open, no lowering of lashes, but her vision is turning inward (or outward), focused on the future and what (will be) might be. This is the kind of focus anybody can have; it is not conjuring auguries, there is no enchantment excepting the usual color of her eyes. Pen is Flambeau; how nice to strike at a Technocratic Stronghold when that stronghold is in disarray. But is an emergency drill in disarray?

"Our brave volunteers will have ready-made scaffolding to build an unsuspicious fiction should they be caught where staff is not supposed to be. Andrés seems to have had some dealings with the Union before which were not unpleasant, so perhaps he will be able to talk too."

Pen studies Grace, and her open nature means that it is not difficult to guess the reason why she studies Grace, because anybody with eyes could read the careful compassion there.

A beat.

Direct: "How do you feel about this? Did everything go smoothly with your reconnaissance?"

Grace
"I have some... doubts about the Doctor's ability to talk. We'll see about that," she says, grumbling a bit. "He's just a little... off." Pot calling the kettle black here, but, you know.

"And as for my reconnaissance... things didn't go exactly to plan. We used to have an information hub -- a hidden forum of sorts. Ginger. When they got Alex, they got his phone too, and must have wrested the passwords out of his head. It's been accessed. I mean, that means we can use it to send them misinformation, but still. Also, someone found out I was in their system and tried to trace me back to the source. I fought it off, but..."

She trails off for a second.

"Something got through. This place, I'm pretty sure they don't know about. I can't go back home, though."

Pen
Pen accepts this information with another layering of grave contemplation. Her spine is as straight as a sword; her weight is evenly distributed between her boots. The tension Grace saw at first, that tight hope: it has dissipated or dissolved, and yet still Pen seems at ease which is not the same as casual or nonchalant. Ease comes from practice or expertise or talent it comes from skill or grace and can be gallant but not cavalier or callous. Pen is far from callous.

"Do you feel safe here, or would it be better if you moved into the safe haven without the chantry - I believe it is some library belonging to you and Kalen?"

Grace
Grace gives Pen this sardonically amused look. "That was home, to me. Alex knew about it, so it was already questionably safe anyway. Now?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm just going to have to find a new office," she says, shrugs. "This time, it can be under my fake company. Just, you know, a lot of work..."

Pen
"Too bad," Pen says, and simply. The back-up safe haven compromised before it had a chance to be needed as a back-up. There is a certain gallow's humor in that.

"Let me know if you think Nicholas or me can help."

A beat. Then this faint smile, which touches her eyes more than it touches her mouth. The radiance there is cupped, the same radiance of a rain-drenched lake, reflecting a sky ambient with cloud-light. Measured. Her eyelashes are dark, darker than her hair but with a burnished glint to them.

"What do you mean about Andrés? Do you think he will self sabotage once he is inside the facility?"

She seems quite sincere in wanting to know Grace's thoughts.

Grace
She nods at Pen. Let her know if she needs any help. In another situation, it would be Grace offering to help, but... No.

"I don't think he'd do it on purpose, if that's what you mean. But he doesn't strike me as the kind of person who's an awesome conversationalist, ready to make people believe everything he says?" she sighs.

"We were talking in the car on the way to the Chantry and back. He takes things... sofuckingliterally, you know? Like, he never learned what lying is or why someone would. Obsesses over people being 'wrong'. Not the person for an infiltration. In my opinion. Neither am I. I suck at communicating with people, you know? But that's why I don't sign myself up for things like that."

Pen
"Who do you believe would is the best-suited for infiltration?"

Grace
Grace huffs. "People who aren't here. Ian's off on some international dance tour or something, or he'd have been perfect. My... uh... I know a guy, but he's really busy and in L.A."

Also, if the Technocrats got their hands on Mike, there's no telling what they'd do to him. With him. Best he stays in L.A. The less they know about what the other is up to, the more sane they can be.

"Kalen wouldn't be terrible at it. But you know, I'm just kind of glad Kiara is going too. She's always seemed rather... competent, to me."

Pen
"Kiara does seem canny." Space for a breath; and then, "I know you did not ask for my thoughts, but I will give them to you anyway. I believe Andrés will do quite well, given our options anyway, for this kind of infiltration. Social skills won't necessarily be what our faux-Conventionalist needs have, but an ability to speak of Science with reverence - no. Not reverence; that isn't a word a scientist would be comfortable using about Science, is it? But with passion and a brusque righteousness. That might come up, and he has interacted with bureaucratic academia before in the context of the medical field. He has the expertise. He has the power. And there will be Kiara, as well, to balance him, as he will balance her. I hope. I do hope all goes smooth."

Grace
"Me too. And you are right about the ability to speak Science and get away with it. I just hope he doesn't go chasing after people, trying to explain to them how wrong they are."

You know, like he always does to her. She shrugs.

"And, I hope he has enough respect for Kiara to listen to her."

You know, like he never does to her.

Pen
Pen listens and it seems, perhaps, that some things are going unsaid; the shape of them is there.

"I have never known him to disrespect the Verbenae. I met him back on the East coast once, a few years ago. I believe they will work well together."

"May I ask... I am curious, but are you and Kalen in a cabal together?"

Grace
Grace shakes her head. "No. Kalen and Alex are. Were," she says, sighs.

"Kalen, he's like a brother to me, you know? But we can't really do the same things together. He has his guns, I have my computers. We did work on the library, projects here and there. But we're not like, 'A Cabal'," she says, making air quotes.

Pen
Kalen and Alex are. Were. That strikes a note in Pen's eyes; the note is like the note struck in the fairy tale which freezes all the clocks, which is a way to stay that she is very still for a half-a-second. It eases, and she (perhaps) misinterprets Grace's sigh.

"It does need need to be 'were'; we will recover him."

At Grace's air-quotes, Penelope (reserved, careful; but so ardent behind that reserve, it is impossible not to notice; she is a passionate woman) inhales and exhales. "I only asked because it seems you two care for one another greatly, and are involved in the same projects; and perhaps have the same goals - in respect to the community, or in your personal endeavors. Nicholas and I belong to the same cabal, the Silver Bough - there is another member who is settling in, and we do not have very many Arts in common, but I like to think we complement one another."

Or Pen just likes to think about Nicholas; it could be that. She says his name a certain way, you see.

"Would you like to grab a slice of pizza?"

Grace
"Kalen, he has this... way about him, you know? He wants to take care of people, protect people. He infected me with that," she says, smiles a little in remembrance.

"I'd love a pizza right now. I still need to contact Sera... Maybe, after pizza? We could bring it back here, and invite Sera, I don't know..."

She rambles, runs a hand in her hair. Still not really 'recovered' from her ordeal. Still pretty tired, worn thin.



Pen
"Call Sera. I can go out and pick the pizza up, then bring it back; I'd like to see her," Pen says, with a smile. "What do you like on your pizza?"

Grace
"There's this place not far from here. Beau Jo's. They make this pizza with chiles and pepperoni -- The Sky Hawk. It's got like, two kinds of cheese, so your mouth doesn't actually catch on fire," she says, eyes lighting up. "I mean, if you like that. They have other stuff."

The woman who feels like a winged thing wants a Sky Hawk pizza. Would have to be named that, right?

"I'll ring up Sera. Thanks."