"Hold on," he said, coming to a stop just outside the main doors. The city loomed over them and Neal felt as if the world had suddenly doubled in size and intrigue and mystery. He was the one lowering his voice because he did care who might overhear him asking the question. "You aren't actually telling me those rumors and legends aren't really rumors or legends, are you?"
Honestly, Neal felt a little stupid for asking, but he had a decent gut on him and the way she'd delivered all of that information either made her a good actress and a hell of a prankster, or she was being serious and one hundred percent believed in said rumors and legends. Or at least the power of them over people. In the end, it hardly mattered which.
Neal didn't even let her get an answer in. Something shifted on her face and then something on his face in his observation of her. "You are." An accusation, sure, but he felt on the money.
The complicated slew of emotions that followed was a baffling experience for Caffrey. He immediately wanted to accept this and then deny it again on grounds of insanity. But Mozzie had touted the power of objects at times, and Neal had taken it as Mozzie's romanticism in all of his romanticism over the interest generated from what sounded like fairy tales.
He'd once told Neal that Louis Armstrong's last horn — "the real deal, not some forgery," he'd said — had caused a room to go dark, and he hadn't been speaking of illumination. The soulful turn of the night had generated a group of very blue folks. It had sounded to Neal like the stories about raining fish and sailing stones, where there's a reality beneath the wonder generated from the absurdity of it. Neal had never thought for a second it could be true. He still wasn't certain he did, or if this was some kind of strange and vivid dream.
He'd seen The Scream. His mind was racing. Was he talking himself into and out of this concept? Neal remembered being fascinated and excited, not terrified. But it had been a time in his life when, whether he'd acknowledged it or not, the entire undercurrent of his existence was terrifying. Maybe he hasn't noticed. As he'd made notes for a con, he'd visited the piece for inspiration. In 1994 it had disappeared and Caffrey had intended to use some part of that rumored heist in his own work a few weeks later, maybe as an homage, maybe to prove something, maybe both. But if it disappeared, maybe what was finally recovered wasn't the same piece. Maybe he hadn't noticed because there was nothing to notice.
Forget his mind racing, now his head was spinning, too. "You're going to have to show me," he finally decided, in so few seconds steamrolling through his own thoughts and any opportunity for her to right him along his path. This was Neal, though, effervescent in almost all things, both good and bad.
The amusement in her eyes was definitely back with a vengeance. His file had said he was sharp and savvy, the kind of person who read most people like open books. She knew her own reactions would give her away even if she tried not to, but her read was that Caffrey would react better if they didn't play the usual tap-dance around the truth. Hiding things would just say there was something to hide.
The almost-demand at the end had her smirking just a little. "I had to go through a thorough bag search and a metal detector on the way in. It's not like I have anything on me," she pointed out.
They checked her bag on the way out, too. It wasn't quite as bad as going into, say, the bowels of the Pentagon, when they inventory everything and check it when you leave, but she wouldn't have tried to pull anything, either.
"You really think I'd carry, say, Mata Hari's secret seduction shade of lipstick in there, do you?" Not that it was the lipstick. The stockings had done that trick. "Even my sidearm is back in the hotel safe."
Did she have some lesser artifacts she could gather? Of course, but the ones she did have were mostly technological, like the mini-Tesla she carried as a weapon by preference, or her Farnsworth. She considered, though.
"I do have a photo of the view from the office. It's a toss-up whether the pyramid or the Eiffel Tower catch most folks' attention. I'm a fan of the Space Needle, myself," she says, winking as she pulls out her cell phone and thumbs over to the relevant picture before handing the phone over. Any attempt on Neal's part to do more than pan or zoom the proffered photo will fail to do anything, because heaven forbid Claudia Donovan not improve her own form to respond to specific biofeedback loops.
As Neal took over the phone, he did try his hand at zooming to no affect, but still found himself thoroughly fascinated by so few pixels. Dubiously so, of course — digital work could be forged so much more simply than any other type, and certainly needed to hold up to a different kind of scrutiny — but considering all the hoops she'd just had to jump through, it was unlikely that Donovan was playing at a ruse (and if she was, he was notably impressed).
"I'll take the Eiffel Tower, personally," he told her, although he looked for a moment as if maybe he was questioning now whether he'd actually seen the monument, or if maybe that had been some kind of forgery, too. The sheer absurdity of it wasn't lost on him, honestly, and it felt as if maybe he'd had too much to drink or not enough air or both for all these realizations were doing for him.
He decided to reserve judgement, handing back the phone as it maybe he'd like to forget what he'd seen. It would be easier, especially if what all she was saying was true.
"I'm going to need a decaf," Neal announced, and when he laughed, he wasn't sure he was selling it as humor. Honestly, like a good suit, he felt he needed the idea to settle, otherwise it wasn't going to hold together. "And you're going to have to tell me if the stuff about Mata Hari's lipstick is true," he added, leading her to the door of the coffee shop just a few doors down.
"Good thing I'm buying, right?" she joked, although, honestly, she'd probably just expense it. In the back of her mind, there was a momentary thought that Neal might not be the only one being auditioned. That future Caretaker bit did come up, and the Caretaker did most of the recruiting.
"What you really want to know is where or not that famous spy had some kind of supernatural advantage when she was seducing away secrets," Claudia said, winking at him as she passed through the door he held, moving to the line. "It's a bit of a chicken and egg scenario, actually. We know certain objects develop properties that are associated with their owners, others have something to do with a significant event. Neither predictable nor easily studied."
"I can tell you Houdini's Wallet is prone to escape attempts."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
/gently makes some stuff up..... yikes
Honestly, Neal felt a little stupid for asking, but he had a decent gut on him and the way she'd delivered all of that information either made her a good actress and a hell of a prankster, or she was being serious and one hundred percent believed in said rumors and legends. Or at least the power of them over people. In the end, it hardly mattered which.
Neal didn't even let her get an answer in. Something shifted on her face and then something on his face in his observation of her. "You are." An accusation, sure, but he felt on the money.
The complicated slew of emotions that followed was a baffling experience for Caffrey. He immediately wanted to accept this and then deny it again on grounds of insanity. But Mozzie had touted the power of objects at times, and Neal had taken it as Mozzie's romanticism in all of his romanticism over the interest generated from what sounded like fairy tales.
He'd once told Neal that Louis Armstrong's last horn — "the real deal, not some forgery," he'd said — had caused a room to go dark, and he hadn't been speaking of illumination. The soulful turn of the night had generated a group of very blue folks. It had sounded to Neal like the stories about raining fish and sailing stones, where there's a reality beneath the wonder generated from the absurdity of it. Neal had never thought for a second it could be true. He still wasn't certain he did, or if this was some kind of strange and vivid dream.
He'd seen The Scream. His mind was racing. Was he talking himself into and out of this concept? Neal remembered being fascinated and excited, not terrified. But it had been a time in his life when, whether he'd acknowledged it or not, the entire undercurrent of his existence was terrifying. Maybe he hasn't noticed. As he'd made notes for a con, he'd visited the piece for inspiration. In 1994 it had disappeared and Caffrey had intended to use some part of that rumored heist in his own work a few weeks later, maybe as an homage, maybe to prove something, maybe both. But if it disappeared, maybe what was finally recovered wasn't the same piece. Maybe he hadn't noticed because there was nothing to notice.
Forget his mind racing, now his head was spinning, too. "You're going to have to show me," he finally decided, in so few seconds steamrolling through his own thoughts and any opportunity for her to right him along his path. This was Neal, though, effervescent in almost all things, both good and bad.
it's all good. We all have to do it....
The almost-demand at the end had her smirking just a little. "I had to go through a thorough bag search and a metal detector on the way in. It's not like I have anything on me," she pointed out.
They checked her bag on the way out, too. It wasn't quite as bad as going into, say, the bowels of the Pentagon, when they inventory everything and check it when you leave, but she wouldn't have tried to pull anything, either.
"You really think I'd carry, say, Mata Hari's secret seduction shade of lipstick in there, do you?" Not that it was the lipstick. The stockings had done that trick. "Even my sidearm is back in the hotel safe."
Did she have some lesser artifacts she could gather? Of course, but the ones she did have were mostly technological, like the mini-Tesla she carried as a weapon by preference, or her Farnsworth. She considered, though.
"I do have a photo of the view from the office. It's a toss-up whether the pyramid or the Eiffel Tower catch most folks' attention. I'm a fan of the Space Needle, myself," she says, winking as she pulls out her cell phone and thumbs over to the relevant picture before handing the phone over. Any attempt on Neal's part to do more than pan or zoom the proffered photo will fail to do anything, because heaven forbid Claudia Donovan not improve her own form to respond to specific biofeedback loops.
no subject
"I'll take the Eiffel Tower, personally," he told her, although he looked for a moment as if maybe he was questioning now whether he'd actually seen the monument, or if maybe that had been some kind of forgery, too. The sheer absurdity of it wasn't lost on him, honestly, and it felt as if maybe he'd had too much to drink or not enough air or both for all these realizations were doing for him.
He decided to reserve judgement, handing back the phone as it maybe he'd like to forget what he'd seen. It would be easier, especially if what all she was saying was true.
"I'm going to need a decaf," Neal announced, and when he laughed, he wasn't sure he was selling it as humor. Honestly, like a good suit, he felt he needed the idea to settle, otherwise it wasn't going to hold together. "And you're going to have to tell me if the stuff about Mata Hari's lipstick is true," he added, leading her to the door of the coffee shop just a few doors down.
no subject
"What you really want to know is where or not that famous spy had some kind of supernatural advantage when she was seducing away secrets," Claudia said, winking at him as she passed through the door he held, moving to the line. "It's a bit of a chicken and egg scenario, actually. We know certain objects develop properties that are associated with their owners, others have something to do with a significant event. Neither predictable nor easily studied."
"I can tell you Houdini's Wallet is prone to escape attempts."