#savant.with puppeteer

[loftycries]

" you would wound me in such a way ? " JAMES quips back, eyes bright with interest. whenever he's with reyhan, one of his oldest friends since moving to new york city, he finds that his lips are always curved in a near-perpetual smile, like a cat that's got the cream. it's odd that he's been able to stay in reyhan's good graces for this long, given that their friendship is all but founded on a farce, a lie that james is cut from the same cloth that reyhan is, or if not the same cloth, something similar enough that it wouldn't ruin the picture. or perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising — they are both performers in their own right, after all. " you would like that wouldn't you ? to knock me down a peg. " he pouts, but this too is an act. he's not offended.

he leans back in his chair, body still tilted towards reyhan's. he ignores that stickiness on his elbow that's characteristic of lovely, 'authentic' manhattan bars like this one. " you don't like underdogs, then ? next you'll tell me that you hate kittens and puppies. and queen. the rock band, not elizabeth — er, god rest her soul. " he shakes his head; it's clear that he doesn't care any particular way about the late queen of england. " you're right though, rooting for the underdog in cases like these is rooting for the winner. the house always wins. "

as if cued by a stage-hand off-camera, a level i agent comes into view. they dance under the spotlight of the helicopter like it's any other stage light. compared to the already winded level ii agents, and the amateur villain who likely made their costume at home with a sewing machine, the level i hero jumps higher, runs faster. james sits back in his seat, facing the tv now. " well, there's your guy, " he says. his eyes don't leave the screen as he takes a sip of his drink. " heroes, they're just like us. "

James is one of the curiouser members of Reyhan’s coterie of companions. In a way, Reyhan couldn’t call James a friend, the word associated with feigned crocodile tears and bisous on the cheek like pairs of traitorous Judases. No, James was different from the shallow ditch known as friendship. For one, Reyhan would not be caught dead in a boring bar like this; Abyss would be the venue of their choice, what with their tasteful and modern décor and good music. Actually, what are they listening to? Reyhan turns their head to the darkened corners, but it’s so dim they can’t tell if they’re looking at a speaker or a shaded spot.

“ Some sort of sadist… ” They draw out the word like a rapier from its sheath. Light yet sharp. Then comes the swing. “ Think about the crushing sensation you’d get in your gut when you call me up, and I tell you I’m too busy — watching House of Villains. You’d feel insignificant, wouldn’t you? ” Many an ego has been shattered by Reyhan’s remark in the past. In this present, Reyhan sniffs and lazily commits to a shrug.

Watching the hapless heroes bumble another attempt at capturing the schmuck taking on the role of the miscreant, Reyhan gives James a little smirk. One must wonder if a “villain” ever longs to be a hero. They idly comment, “ You have a penchant for the underdogs, then? You have to admit, the odds for these agents are insurmountable unless someone is willing to tip the scales in their favor. ”

Another sip of the Commonwealth pauses their conversation, and Reyhan chuckles, “ Even the lowest denominator car chases on whatever-the-hour news attempt at entertainment value. Nothing is nakedly observed as is anymore. The camera angle, when to cut, when to zoom in and out. Editing, framing, direction. There’s always a concern about putting on a show, and with the brand collaborations Cerberus loves to dish out, you think they’d put their stars in a better light. Or…”

Reyhan flicks at a stray bang away from their face. Leans in close and tight to James’ side. “ Or then we should all admit that these… extras are that. Extras. The storyline will demand the real protagonist to show up. I suspect a Level One will pop up any minute now. ”

[loftycries]

the feeling that JAMES gets as he watches reyhan piss off the bartender is something like walking a tightrope separating fondness from exasperation — a breeze in either direction might be enough to send him toppling over to either side. the game reyhan is playing is a familiar one after years of knowing them, and james isn't necessarily against being their accomplice. there's rarely a sin that cannot be forgiven by money, and his friend wields wealth as effectively as any weapon.

"on a friday night ? you have to be some sort of sadist," he says, though his tone is amused. his own drink is decidedly less demanding — a signature cocktail taken from the bar's own drinks menu — and because of that, he's received his drink long before reyhan received theirs. "i'm rooting for the heros, actually. it feels a little redundant to root for the villains at this point, seeing how effectively they're emasculating the agents on tv." reyhan already knows what james does in his free time, though he's also dropped hints that his free time is actually his time on the clock. after all, he gets paid for messing around with agents.

"it has to be… filmed by helicopter. and it seems like it's live," he says. "which could be a reason why they seem not at all concerned about putting on a show. or is that not a good enough excuse in your opinion ?"

The Metropolitan Opera House this venue is not. Still, Reyhan is entertaining — yes, dearest, enchanté — the local gaggle who patiently awaits the last sip of their Commonwealth cocktail just so they can buy Reyhan a new drink. As if they can afford it. The bartender himself had given Reyhan the most withering glance when Reyhan assured him they weren’t kidding when ordering a Commonwealth. It took a newly-printed Benjamin at the center of the bar table, and a smooth suggestion of, “My people have told your people in advance. There’s a box in the back with the seventy-one ingredients. Be a dear. Your management would want that for you.”

Swirling a plastic stick in the drink mainly to spite the bartender, Reyhan catches the gaze of said mixologist from their seat in the bar. Reyhan winks. The quick turn from the tattooed man causes the dancer to chuckle — ( interesting... negging isn’t what they pictured, but... ) — and then return to their friend’s little activity, completely ignoring the courters at their stage left.

“Did your team win yet?” Reyhan drawls, boredom dulling their sonorous tone while they whisper to James. “I must say, love, no one is playing to camera. How can I be concerned with these life or death stakes if they can’t emote their struggles, their terrors?”

At their friend’s inquiry, Reyhan gives the screen more than a passing glance this time around, but none of the agents of the corporation are faces they are concerned with. Furthermore, the other side isn’t convincing either. Utterly inelegant. Just throwing people around. Where is the artistry?

“Who’s filming this? Where is the editing magic? I’d love to see a confessional if I’m resorted to watching TV on a Friday night.”