diademlogs | MINGLE ∞ LOG

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MINGLE ∞ LOG — June 2025

Mingle ∞ Log

No Lifeguard on Duty

Jump ⇅ :: Intro — Prompts — NPC Interaction

Summary

What's going on?

An unexpected heat wave in mid-June, coupled with the cycling shutdown of all air conditioning units in motels across the Blocks, has made the summer unbearable. Meanwhile, the ever-eager storm chaser, Felix Bjurstrom, has uncovered a fancy resort with a pool in a diffusion zone only 1 hour out from Panorama. Lucky, right? Well...kind of. It's got some quirks.

When is this happening?

June 10 - 30

What should I know?

This area is one of many diffusion zones that appear throughout the planet.
A storm chaser is someone dedicated to studying the cosmic phenomenon in the Diadem. Felix is a pioneer in his field.
A winding highway filled with old empty barrels will take you to the zone.
Characters can travel with a friend to save on gas! Parking's limited, so it might not be a bad idea.
At any given time, there's max several dozen visitors. Most work long hours, some are traveling through the diffusion zones, and others prefer not to risk the drive or waste precious gas, so it won't draw a huge crowd (but there's still a crowd!).
This is a mingle rather than an event. Plot-heavy elements will be minor. The game's first proper event will be posted in July!

What does my character know?

Having lost his phone, Felix will spread the word using good old-fashioned printed posters that he's put up around Panorama. A young woman is seen helping him. They appear to be close. Some say that's his daughter.
Though the timing is impossible to predict accurately, Felix believes that due to this zone's unusual proximity to an anchor point, it has a high chance of persisting for 2-3 weeks.
Directions are printed on the posters, though characters are also free to stumble across the zone by accident.

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Travel — Map — Setting

Introduction

The resort looks like your typical upscale vacation spot: a beautiful pool, lovely cabins, and plenty of pool chairs. The sky is perpetually nighttime and there are two moons. One moon is smaller than its sister and glows purple. The other looks like the Earth's moon. The weather is pleasantly warm. In fact, conditions are almost too perfect.

Other fluxdrifts are here, too, and you might come across them, all of whom are taking advantage of the pool. They'll converse superficially with you and will come and go randomly. You'll want to keep a close eye on your belongings. Other than cooling off, this isn't a bad place to start making connections. Life in the Diadem is better when you've got allies if not friends.

Just outside the resort is a spacious parking lot, designed for visitors. Nobody's following parking rules so put your car anywhere it fits. If you get blocked in, well, that's a problem for when you leave.

At the end of June, the diffusion zone will flicker and morph into an unremarkable overgrown park, long abandoned to the decades.

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Prompts

As you wander around, you discover deactivated androids in many of the poolside huts. These androids cannot be mistaken for any organic species: their chassis is metal, and their heads are shiny. Circuits and wires are visible. But each is dressed distinctly human in a way that borders on disturbing. You spot lipstick drawn on some of the metal faces, as though they're playing dress up...or as if they don't realize they aren't human. One android is frozen in place with a diary clutched in its hands. Another has a hairbrush for its nonexistent hair.

Something seems to have destroyed them—perhaps a powerful EMP wave that knocked them all out. All except one.

The Bartender

The poolside bar is at the eastern end of the resort. There are plenty of seats. A few are occupied by deactivated androids. The bartender is also an android and appears to be the only functional one in this place. He speaks with a modulated voice and has a neutral accent. He exhibits the following behaviors if you sit at his bar:

Icebreaker. Whether you're alone or with a companion, he'll try to get you all to be friends, asking random self-generated icebreaker questions. He'll be visibly disappointed if you don't play along.
Bartending. While cheerful, he can't make the correct drink: it's always too strong, incredibly weak, added salt instead of sugar, messed up the ice. He's obviously doing his best, but it's just not working. The harder he tries, the worse he performs until it becomes a comedy of errors with stuff falling over, ice dumped in your lap, champagne corks flying, and any number of slapstick mishaps. You can help him out by mixing the drink yourself.

If you're nice to him, he'll introduce himself as Thomas Lustras. He's happy to tell you about his son. Strange, you think, but who says androids can't have paternal instincts? Yet, when the android takes out his wallet to show you a photo of his son—named Edward Lustras—the picture is that of a human child, roughly 5 years old, in the arms of his human father.

The driver's license in the same wallet confirms that Thomas is (was?) a real person. The picture on the license matches the human male in the photo. A half-scorched business card states that Thomas was a consultant at Outer Rim Resettlements. Thomas believes he's on a company retreat and wistfully declares he's eager to return home to his son.

Maybe don't look too closely. After all, this place will soon disappear. And so will he.

The Grill

It's not a vacation without a grill! Not a grillable item is in sight, though, so you'll have to rely on what you can bring out of Panorama. Some of the visiting drifters will pitch in to share, unloading hotdogs (some synthetic, others authentic, and some far past expiry), burger patties (same) and buns, and "kebabs" made of blocky frozen vegetable squares. The squares vaguely resemble corn, mushrooms, and pineapple. The texture is passable, like a flavor-infused block of tofu.

Fire up the grill and take turns grilling. You'll also have to manage the propane. The grill's also prone to sputtering out, requiring regular minor repairs to get it back up and going. Any loose bolts or screws can be taken out of the dead androids to replace the rusty ones in the grill. You're unsure if you should feel uncomfortable doing that or what, but it is a solution.

Parking Woes

Like any crowded event, the parking lot can get chaotic, and the lawlessness of the diffusion zones doesn't help. While some are happy to help barbecue, others are more interested in picking fights over who got to the parking space first. It won't take much for a fistfight to break out, and a knife fight isn't out of the question, either, though nobody'll be killed (this time).

You can let the troublemakers beat each other, or you can try to intervene if somebody who doesn't deserve it is getting harassed. Just avoid causing too much of a scene. Breaking noses is acceptable; gutting someone head to toe is not. There are Enforcers visiting the zone, and if you interfere with their nice pool time, they won't hesitate to haul away everybody involved and make you sit in jail for a few days.

Questions? Ask here

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⏾ AROUND, PART B.

( or later, he's at the bar, nursing an ice-laden drink he's not yet taken a sip of. it's undrinkable, and marc lifts it to his nose before his gaze shifts sceptically from it to — thomas? thomas. his mouth thins, and he places his glass back down, condensation from the ice dulling the thunk against wood.

if he's honest, based on the smell, he's drank worse: there are only so many genuinely palatable drinks that can befound in the desert or the jungle before someone has to become creative, and that someone was rarely ever marc.

he had, though, often been a someone that'd drank said creative drinks, him and jean-paul muttering the morning after about how the sun was trying to melt their face or some such, but he likes to think those days are behind him. he doesn't miss the way thomas chatters companionably about his child, or flips open a wallet that marc glances at in spite of himself. his attention rests on the photo, and his thoughts drift immediately to his daughter before—

a mouthful of drink, a swallow, and a grimace. (god, that's terrible—). for his part, thomas interrupts his tale of parenthood, tone shifting abruptly to apologetic and promising to remake the drink (an old fashioned, though anyone watching will note that instead of sugar or even simple syrup, thomas reaches for salt, or perhaps olive oil—), even as he asks a question to not specifically marc, but to whoever deigns to answer it first, given the approaching footsteps to the bar—

FAVOURITE CITY?, punctuated by a HEY, SO, TRAVEL FAR? MY RETREAT'S OVER SOON—, or maybe a PANCAKES OR WAFFLES? THE CHEF'S GREAT— though given thomas's own abilities with a cocktail mixer, marc looks unconvinced.

or maybe that's just his natural expression, who's to say? in either case, he ignores the question — or any other question posed — and suggests, )

What about something on the rocks?

( less difficult to fuck up, right? jury's still out on whether he'll drink it, but it'll at least be easier to pretend. )

If I had money to bet, I'd guess you're about to get actual rocks.

[ Amos, of course, understands what on the rocks is, but considering Thomas' track record so far, he's not exactly optimistic that either of them will be getting anything they actually want. Even saying that, though, Amos isn't overly picky. He just wants to get a little drunk. Now, when the drinks start lacking any liquor at all, there's a problem.

He's not planning to linger here very long, and in fact, he fully intends to just swipe a bottle of booze soon before he's on his way; he'll tell Thomas he's doing it, though. He's not deceptive like that, robot or not (and...yeah, that robot thing isn't exactly cut and dry, either, apparently). He'll be upfront about anything he takes. He came down here to see what was up, though, and what kind of resources he could take back with him. He'd arrived in this world with nothing but the clothes on his back, and he doesn't like how much of a disadvantage that's put him in, so. Gather what he can.

Whatever Amos is currently savoring, it's got a blue tint and is almost too sweet, but he keeps sipping at it anyway because there's just enough of a burn to tell him their robot(ish) buddy's at least managed a pour of something on the normalish side, for now. That weird salty flavor on the back of his throat tells him it's still less than perfect. ]

( the interjection earns a glance, appraising and with a momentary widening of eyes punctuated by a knitting of brows that suggests marc thinks amos has a point and that, up until amos spoke, he hadn't considered the likelihood of it. a breath of a pause, then, as marc's gaze swings back round to thomas, and he holds up a hand as if to say hey, wait—.

unfortunately, thomas doesn't quite catch the gesture, back turned to both marc and amos as he's cheerfully distracted-slash-concentrating on the (apparently very lost) art of drink making. once, more recently than he'd care to admit, marc had been asked that if whiskey was steven's preferred drink of choice, if rum was jake's, where did that leave marc spector? he'd admitted, with less reluctance than he'd expected of himself, that his choice was vodka — ice cold, perfect for hot weather, whilst managing to strike a cord of nostalgia for chicago winters and his parents.

that's not why he doesn't opt for it now — the truth of it's simpler than that, and it's 'neat vodka needs to be good vodka' coupled with 'and if it's not, you already need to be drunk', and given what he's been served and what thomas offers as the replacement — luckily thomas has not provided actual rocks (thank god—) — but the glass is full to the brim with ice instead, spilling over onto the wood of the counter as the glass is slid inelegantly towards marc.

he inhales a breath, fingertips pressing against the cold of the glass before he spares amos another glance, this one sidelong, before his gaze drops to the blue of his drink. he doesn't quite smile, but there's a thin, quick quirk of his lips, and a dry, ) Yours looks better than mine.

What did you ask for to get something—. ( a flicker of a glance towards thomas. it may be difficult to describe marc as nice, per se, but he doesn't aim to be impolite.

so, instead of saying 'drinkable', he gestures vaguely and loosely with a hand. )

Shit, anything's gonna be better than yours now.

[ The brief sound he makes under his breath could almost resemble a laugh. Or maybe a broken exhale masquerading as a laugh. Like it's a clumsy thing, like he doesn't use that (or get to use it) a whole lot. Rusty. ] You got any actual drink in there?

[ Though there's technically liquid in his own glass as opposed to a whole damn thing of ice, he'd hesitate to call it anything beyond just...drinkable, himself. It's fine. It does the job, mostly. ]

Just said I wanted a drink, dealer's choice. Buddy's version of the color blue kinda tastes like — shit. But fruity shit, so...ain't as bad.

[ He reasons since they're both suffering in some way at the hands of their robot server, he might extend a little generosity to the guy. So with just the tip of his index finger, Amos nudges the glass towards Marc. In the background, Thomas meanders around, seemingly distracted with tidying the little umbrellas he's been sticking in some of the drinks on a whim; "tidying" in this case is what he guesses passes for some type of clean up in the robot's frazzled...brain(?), because while all the umbrellas get bundled together, Thomas also just decides to, evidently, fling them on the ground. Huh. Amos watches curiously before nudging the glass again, the wood letting out a single shrill creak at the movement. Amos gives a silent little nod to Marc, as if to say, Take it or leave it, brother.

And with that ringing endorsement, you really gonna turn it down, Marc? ]

( there's familiarity in the sound amos makes — marc's own laugh would be none too dissimilar, the awkward result of disuse and infrequency, and though he doesn't quite reciprocate, there is a hum of acknowledgement that edges towards amusement. )

There'll be some once the ice melts. ( it's a wry murmur, the verbal equivalent of a shrug as he meets amos's gaze and amos explains the very imprecise way he'd managed to get served something that wasn't what marc'd ended up with.

what he thinks but doesn't say, then, is: luck of the draw. he'd disagree, too, that FRUITY SHIT isn't that bad — marc's never had much of a sweet tooth, never particularly cared for artificial flavours, and he can guess what a discomfortingly blue drink might taste like, but that'd been on earth, where they're not. (probably. marc's still not entirely convinced that this is all real and as it seems.)

in the beat of silence between them, marc's attention flits back to thomas just in time to catch the way that the umbrellas get thrown on the ground. where amos thinks huh, marc inhales a sharp breath that sounds as if it's the precursor to a sigh that doesn't come. maybe, he thinks, he should've tried his luck with the grill outside, and he tilts his head towards amos, mouth parting in a small 'o' as if he's about to remark as much, but he's stopped short by the nudge of the glass and the complaining of the bartop.

he pauses, expression momentarily blank and uncomprehending, then—. ah. realisation is swift and blatant, and he reaches out to slide the glass the rest of the way towards him. it sticks a little on the damp wood and threatens to spill, while marc's brows knit quizzically, the unasked question of 'what, you gonna ask for another one?' sitting in his features.

a small, perhaps surprisingly delicate sip precipitates a scrunch of his nose. comparatively, it's not terrible, but it's — well, it's not good. drinkable's about the kindest thing anyone could say, but as far as these things go, drinkable's fine.

that doesn't stop him from levelling his gaze at amos as he places the glass back down, a dull thunk bookending the movement rather than a clink. his mouth thins — more of a smothering of a (not)smile than anything else, and— ) I don't know what'll make you feel worse in the morning: the sugar or the booze.

( is it that sweet, or is marc just fucking with him? REMAINS TO BE SEEN. )

[ The thing about Amos is that in most situations in life — whether just sitting at a bar under the moonlight or outrunning gunships out in the stars — he's just here. Existing. Things happen or they don't. Bad things, good things, they come at him and he deals with it. What he feels in any given situation or moment is often just — yeah, I'm here, gotta be somewhere. Or, under the threat of impending death — sure, I'd like to keep being somewhere. He can feel things like mounting tension, the way a moment just tightens and the air goes out a little. Or, in good times, he can feel the way it's easy to just be, just breathe, keep being and keep steady. It's hard for him to attribute emotions or feelings to that state of being most of the time, but he's started to get a little better at it.

A little.

So here and now, he thinks the way his shoulders loosen and drop just slightly, the way the guy next to him doesn't quite smile and that feels familiar — it's all kinda...easy. Like a rhythm. That way you come down from a float and let out a breath. It's good, he thinks.

He hasn't really needed or cared to keep up interacting with the people he's met here so far. He's had a few he's thought about more than once since they parted, but not enough that he felt compelled to try looking up their number and check on them. His normal state of being is just doing his own thing, which — isn't good for him for too long, he knows that. And without the influence of his crew here, he's aware he needs — well, some people, anyway. For the moment, it might as well be the guy decked out like he's about to show up to a gala, the guy that's so far easy to talk to.

With the index finger of his left hand, Amos taps the bartop once, twice, and almost-but-not-quite smirks, casting a sidelong glance to him as he tilts his head slightly. ]

Nah, see, you say it like that, now we gotta find out. [ We, because seemingly — at least for the duration of time they're occupying this space together, the guy next to him is his ride-along in this boozy little misadventure. Come on, man, it's better than that melting ice, right? At least it's a — flavor. Of some sort. If not actually a good one, or a good time.

Is Amos fucking with him, though? Also remains to be seen.

Their robot buddy seems to just be — staring(?) at the umbrellas on the ground. Did the thing short circuit, what the fuck —

Wordlessly, Amos gets up from his seat, goes around to the other side of the bar, starts to pick up the umbrellas. Completely inelegant about it, though; he just scoops the bunch of them up between his hands, drops them into the trash, all except one. A little blue-and-white one that he sets down in front of the seat he'd been occupying. He taps Thomas' metallic shoulder, and it seems to jostle something enough that it starts moving again, down to the other end of the bar to wipe it clean with a dry cloth. Amos kneels and starts to look at the bottles there, a slight clanging echoing between them as he moves some around. When he stands up, he's got a bottle in his hand, showing it off. ]

Thomas doesn't know it yet but he's gonna make it up to me and send me back to the city with this bottle of tequila. So what's your drink? You know — the real stuff, not the filler.

[ He grabs another glass, an empty one. ]

And ain't you dyin' in that suit?

[ Least they ain't in the full view of the sun. ]

( ain't you dyin' in that suit, amos says, and for a second — assuming he knows what he's looking for and at — there's genuine amusement in marc's features, in the way his body relaxes for one beat, then two, and then he gestures loosely and vaguely with a hand as if to say 'you'd think', or perhaps 'it's fine'. )

Funny. I thought I was dressed to kill, not to die.

( it's dry, dismissive in its own way, and though it's likely not evident what marc means by it entirely, it is clear it's not quite as simple as all that — at least, there'd likely be less of a sliver of the ghost of humour.

with that said, the utterance hanging between them for longer than's strictly necessary, marc's attention flickers back to the bottle amos had picked up, then to the wall of bottles behind him. in the immediate, he wouldn't describe amos as having an easy manner to him, but there are parts of how he holds himself, parts of the (almost) back-and-forth they've fallen into that reminds him of soldier. it's a thought he notes and places to one side, to return to only if it ends up proving relevant. maybe — maybe — with a touch of jean-paul's humour, from before he'd had enough of marc's shit. it's there in the remark about we gotta find out, and the thomas doesn't know it, only it's less—

—french. )

I've spent a lot of time in hot countries, ( he adds as an addendum, almost distracted as he shifts his weight to stand and lean over the bar, eyes scanning the bottles a little more intently than he had previously. he knows this isn't the same thing, the two moons are evident enough of that, but that doesn't change the way the heat feels, the way his shirt sticks to him, the mugginess or the humidity. fortunately, he's had a lot of practise at pretending it doesn't matter and he hasn't noticed.

as if to say 'and so', he follows the remark up with— ) Vodka.

( his gaze flickers to the umbrella amos had placed down, then to thomas, then back to amos. thomas is no vision, that's for sure, and despite any questions marc might have about thomas, they're not what he focuses on now.

instead, it's a pointed, challenging remark aimed solely at amos, two fingers flicking towards the bottle of tequila. ) That explains a lot.

Could be both.

[ There is the barest hint of what could pass for an almost-smile on his own face in return. Amos doesn't consider at length what he means beyond the surface of the words, but at the same time, he doesn't need to know to respond with his own equally dry, straight-faced remark. And like everything with him, too, there's always more to it. Amos could see Marc mingling around the crowd of people like Avasarala, though he doesn't strike Amos as the type to necessarily enjoy rubbing elbows with a bunch of bureaucrats. Looking the part and being the part are worlds away.

Marc wouldn't be fully wrong to consider soldier in relation to Amos, though nothing he'd done in his past was ever through any official channels. He was muscle for the crime bosses, simple as that. Or not so simple, really. But life took a sharp left from that whole way of being.

When Marc's leaning near, it's easier to see the way that shirt's clinging to him; Jesus, whatever amount of time he's spent in hot countries like this at length, there's gotta be a better way. To himself, he considers one of the cabins where he'd seen clothes left behind, thought of doubling back later to grab a few things if any were left. One of the t-shirts he remembers seeing seems like the last thing a guy like this would ever wear, which is the whole reason he should. Mostly he'd be in it to see his reaction if he suddenly tossed it his way.

For his next move, he doesn't explain himself; rather, he takes that blue drink, pours half of it into the empty glass, follows that with tequila to fill it to the top. There's the other one now, and the guy said vodka with all seriousness, so. He's not against it, isn't even the type to question someone's choice of vodka over anything else, it's just not his choice most days.

But, alright, vodka it is. Can it make the shitty sugar drink better or worse? Well, time to find out. Maybe enough of the vodka, the rest don't matter. But Marc wanted something on the rocks, so he's not actually thinking with any true seriousness that this will be to his taste (or his own, frankly), but he's curious. Mostly because he usually just drinks something neat, doesn't do cocktails or the like. While he's here and half the drink is already made, well, give it a try, he figures. So to the other glass goes the rest of the taste of blue hell, and as much vodka as he can fit in there. And the little umbrella.

This, he pushes closer to Marc again.

But first things first. He takes his glass, brings it close, leans against the shelves behind him for a moment. ]

You gotta fill in on the a lot part.

[ It's not said as a challenge, no inflection of even the hint of defensiveness in his tone. Tequila explains something, so — go ahead. ]

( oh. marc had definitely thought he'd be getting a pour of just vodka, it hadn't twigged that amos would decide to split the drink in half and top it up with vodka. his eyebrows dart up towards his hairline briefly, a quick flicker of realisation tinged with doubt. it's not a judgement he's especially wed to — he's a man that has and will put almost anything into his body if he considers it necessary, without a single flicker of consideration as to what it'll do to him, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have preferences. )

Mostly, it explains why you thought that wasn't that bad, ( he half-answers, a shoulder lifting in a small, tight shrug. it's as much of an admission that he hadn't thought about it that deeply as he'll give, as well as a hint that this — light-hearted conversation — isn't something he does often.

still. )

I have a friend, ( therapist, he means his therapist. ) Who seems to think that a drink preference says something about a person. ( and it's not quite how she put it, but you know. conversation. ) Scotch for the serious. Rum for rascals. ( it's not the word marc would use for jake, but the alliteration fits. ) I never caught what she thought of vodka. ( 'volatile', maybe. it'd fit.

and for tequila? the first word that comes to mind is troublesome, which describes well enough some of the nights his younger self had after drinking it, but here and now, it's not a word that strikes him as suitable for amos.

a twitch of his lips and instead of elaborating or adding anything else, he picks up his glass and holds up to the light. it's still just as blue as it had been, and for a sharp, sudden second, marc thinks it's weird that they're on a resort that's clearly not on earth but has so many earth alcohols. his gaze slides back towards thomas, who has moved on to loading the glasswasher. from where marc is, he can't see what he's putting into it, but he'd be willing to put money on it not being dirty glasses.

whatever it is, it's accompanied by another inane icebreaker directed at a woman who's just sat down, an if you were a type of cookie, what would you be and why? that earns a soft inhale of breath from marc. then, a sip of his remade drink, gaze lifting to meet amos's. )

I won't tell him that you could take his job.

You'd be better off making it yourself.

( eliot is speaking from experience, of course. that is, he's already reached over the bar on two separate occasions to pour his own whiskey. he's not quite sure how the— robot? a robot, and man, hardison would flip if he were here to see it— managed to fuck up his first drink, a simple pint of whatever was on tap, but eliot figured he'd just take matters into his own hands.

not that the bartender seems to be noticing. eliot feeds it a steady stream of bullshit answers to questions such as you a hockey fan? and favourite breakfast cereal? and what city were you born in? and in return eliot gets to have a decent drink with no fuss.

speaking of. eliot knocks his drink back and the ice clicks against his teeth as his glass runs dry. he sets it down in its little pool of condensation and then reaches over the counter for the half finished bottle. before he pours his own he shakes it a little in marc's direction, as though to say want some? and does his best not to react to the WHITE THREE PIECE SUIT the man wearing like a goddamn lunatic. )

( marc inhales a breath when eliot speaks, although it's more resigned than it is irritated. the quick twitch of his lips says that eliot has a point, but not much more beyond that. if marc was interested in getting drunk, that's absolutely what he would've done — hell, it's what he would've done regardless of thomas's skills, if that's where his inclinations had lain.

so— ) Probably, ( he concedes, just as eliot gives an answer to one of thomas's questions, and marc doesn't need to know eliot to know it's crap. a breath of a pause, then, just as eliot drains his glass, the clink of ice against glass and teeth audible for a beat, and— ) But how else would he learn?

( and more to the point, how else would marc end up in a conversation wherein he learns a robot (or whatever) thinks he's a REAL BOY with a REAL SON, and it's not that that's concerning, per se, but it is—

—well, it raises questions.

his gaze drops to eliot's bottle, and he squints as if trying to work out what it is — marc may not describe himself as fussy, but he has his preferences —before relenting and leaning over the bartop. it's not quite a smile he gives thomas, as marc rarely emotes that broadly unless it's something negative, and he rarely bothers to perform being cheerful or charming unless he has a need or want for it (or: never), but there's the edge of one, and it's almost apologetic.

an empty glass, then, and— ) Thomas has the excuse of being—. ( a vague wave with his fingers more than his hand, and he doesn't bother to vocalise 'not human', simply because thomas appears convinced. ) If you haven't chosen something good, I'll hold it against you.

( it's utterly deadpan, with precisely zero indication as to whether it's meant as a joke or not. )

If you don't like what I've picked then you only have your own bad taste to blame.

( eliot's own mouth twitches, corners turning up, but he's not paying all too close attention to what he's actually saying. no something about the way the guy moved caught his attention and now that he's looking he can see it now— in his haircut, the style, the length of it, in the way he balances his weight in his seat. maybe this is the real reason why he's sitting by the pool at a resort in an ostentatiously white suit; most CIA—ex or not—don't like to draw attention to themselves like that.

eliot reaches across the counter once more for the tongs speared into the basin of ice. drops two cubes into marc's newly liberated glass, and then, with a twist of his wrist, he opens the whiskey and pours it with the kind of flourish one might see at one of those rich hotel bars. his own glass his filled with much less fanfare. )

Cheers. ( said with a tilt of his glass in marc's direction. and then, because eliot has already met one guy spook-adjacent and is starting to wonder if there's something in the water: ) So the Marines and the CIA were a long time ago for you but you're obviously still in the game. How does the suit fit into all of this?

( despite his best attempts, marc is not a stoic man. though he might trend towards subtlety, his thoughts and emotions are often visible in his face, a tendency not helped by how frequently he wears a mask — and while it doesn't disguise the movements of his features entirely, it makes it more difficult to piece together what his face might be doing at any given time. marc, then, doesn't often have to, nor does he often think to attempt to school his expressions.

and so his brows knit together, a tight frown interrupting the almost-frown that typically serves as marc's default expression. the corners of his mouth quirk into a quick, unhappy curve down as he very pointedly, very deliberately, gives eliot a once-over. it's searching, almost weighted, as if marc's trying to place eliot, as if he's trying to decide how displeased he should feel by the immediacy of the (correct) assertion.

abruptly, then, he thinks of the profile, the asshole the committee had hired in their attempt to get a leg over on moon knight, and wonders if they're any relation. )

I spent a lot of time in hot countries, ( he answers, though it's not to the question eliot's asked. it's back to that you only have your own bad taste, but the two aren't entirely unrelated. if eliot's that quick, marc's sure he'll piece it together — iraq, probably, based on his age, not that it's a reliable tell with the way here works. the broader middle east. south america. north and east africa. ) Always preferred vodka, ( he adds, before finally raising his glass and tilting it towards eliot in loose reciprocation of his cheers.

then he shifts his weight, a deliberate opening of his body, and he gestures at himself with a hand, the tiniest of wry smiles sitting in the curve of his lips. it's almost like there's a joke there, one that only marc's in on. it's a contrast to the utterly serious way he says— )

These days, I'm a priest. ( there's a dry, silent 'can't you tell?' hitched to the statement. )

I guess even men of the cloth have vices.

( could refer to the drink, could refer to the fact that the guy has a preference for vodka. either way it's said a little incredulously, mostly because he gets the feeling he's supposed to disregard it. it obviously meant something, more than just a sarcastic throwaway to tell him to back off. and, eliot notes, he didn't deny still being in the game either.

he takes a sip of his drink.

not a face eliot remembers though; not from the time he also spent in hot countries and not from the lines of work he ended up in afterwards. all things considered that could be good news but eliot's luck has never been all that great.

he takes another sip, considering this ex-marine, ex-spook, ex-mercenary priest, and then nods to him: ) Got a prayer or two for me, padre?

( 'vices' earns a thin flicker of a smile, fleeting and momentarily, because eliot has no idea, although it shifts into something bordering a little more on distance at the 'padre'. wrong god, wrong kind of priest, and marc is ill-suited to pretend otherwise — multi-faith chaplaincy might be a thing, but marc had been far from an observant, practising man of faith when he'd enlisted, and since then, khonshu's not been what marc would call the most forgiving of gods.

it's complicated, in short, the memory of reciting the shema before (apparent) death burning hot in his thoughts, even as he points out, ) Men of the cloth are still men.

( fallible. human. marc might be a man dedicated to a god, but he's not a man of faith, not in the ways that 'priest' implies, and he's aware of his misstep with regards to eliot, even if he's not quite certain of how to redraw the outlines of his meaning. his faith, such as it is, is to a god he'd made a point of proclaiming as silent, as indifferent, as one who'd abandoned his people, but it's not the one he proclaims himself a priest of.

there's a difference between that, between the covenant his father had held, and the debt he owes to khonshu. it's not eliot's fault that he's inadvertently pushed open the door to a conversation marc is disinclined and ill-equipped to hold.

he doesn't sip his drink, he just holds his gaze, level, firm. ) Prayer isn't absolution. ( it's an assumption in kind. ) It doesn't absolve you. ( a beat, pointed. ) What are you actually asking for?

( eliot does actually laugh this time, a breathless ha ha ha as though marc has just told his best joke yet. )

There's no absolution for people like me.

( a statement of fact, and one he came to terms with a long time ago. he might go out again and again and again, a weapon finally in the service of something good, but he's under no illusions that he might be able to wipe his slate clean by doing so. he just doesn't know any other way to be. same way he doesn't think there's any god out there that can help him. no other way out but through.

absolution. he wonders if that's what mr. ex marine ex spook ex merc has been searching for. he certainly sounds like he got his answers the hard way.

and, it certainly sounds like eliot has crossed a line somewhere. he'll freely admit that he was fishing a little with that padre, so he shouldn't be too surprised at what decided to bite. eliot makes sure his own gaze has a little give to it as they meet, letting his shoulders ease, fingers tapping idly on the counter. )

And truth be told, I'm just being nosy. Ex marine, ex CIA, ex merc... those kinds of guys only come in a couple of flavours. I'm just figuring out which one.

Absolution's very Christian, ( marc retorts, tone mild, his shoulder lifting in a shrug. though he doesn't laugh, his tone implies that eliot's response is enough on that topic. it's not his place to comment on whether absolution's a concept worth anything — how many years has it been that he's spent seeking redemption? years where guilt and debt are one and the same?

marc knows what eliot means, though maybe they've delineated the flavours in slightly different ways. there are those that enjoy causing pain, and marc's rarely got along with those; there are the men like jean-paul, who like piecing together solutions, who enjoy stumbling upon a problem and putting it back together in a way that makes sense as best they can, and then there are men like marc, the ones that are the problem, and who don't know any other way to be.

even in his youth, marc had a problem with authority, but he'd been able to push it to one side long enough to enlist, had been able to ignore his conscience long enough to fall in with men like raul bushman, who didn't care so long as they were paid and they had their egos stroked. for marc, it'd always been about the push-and-pull of pain, of feeling alive, and to begin with, it hadn't mattered which side of the line he'd been on, as long as he'd felt satisfied.

raul might have been the worst of them, but marc's under no illusions that anyone else would've made any distinctions between them. )

I was taught that a man's judged by his deeds and nothing else.

( it's easy, lacking in judgement. his gaze drops to eliot's fingers, the tap-tap, a one-two before he adds, almost testing— )

What flavour does ghost come in?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

MINGLE ∞ LOG — June 2025

POOLSIDE, PT. ii

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