206/I Think This Is Yours

I Think This Is Yours
Date of Scene:	01 March 2020
Location:	Empire Glassworx
Synopsis:	Nick does his good deed for the day, and returns a lost item to a stranger. And makes plans.
Cast of Characters:	Nick Lytton, Terry O'Neil

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Nick Lytton has posed:
    Arts shops are kind of a mixed bag when it comes to how busy they are.  Sometimes they're crammed with patrons, gawkers, and other interested parties, and sometimes they're virtually devoid of life.  At the moment, Empire Glassworx is in the latter state.
    Someone who peers in through the front window would see a lone counter person, looking slightly bored, sipping tea from a glass mug that definitely looks handmade.  Right here, one would hope.  Otherwise, awk-warrrd.
    The glass art on display in the shop is both utilitarian and purely decorative, and sometimes both.
    Typical arts-district venue, really.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    This is the first time Terry has ever been to this place.  Usually, this type of studio is way beyond his means.  If there are any glass pieces decorating Terry's apartment, they usually came from gift shops and their going price at auction would probably net you a nice cup of coffee.
    Maybe.
    The redhead walks through the door and, after taking a good look around, walks towards the counter.  "Hello!" he says cheerfully.  "I think I'm in the right place… my name's Terry O'Neil, and I think someone who works here found something that belongs to me?"

Nick Lytton has posed:
    The counter girl looks up from her tea.  Smells distinctly herbal, heavy on the chamomile.  "Oh, yeah, I saw a note about that," she says, flicking through a couple Post-Its.  "Let me get Nick, be just a sec, m'kay?"  Without waiting for a reply, she's off.
    The glass dividing the work area from the shop area is doing a heroic job of muting the too-loud music playing in the work area, reducing it to a faint buzzing.  Only one person is visible beyond, and… well.  Ever heard the phrase 'Dance like no one is watching'?  Clearly he believes no one is watching.  If someone is watching, they may be surprised to see him reach into one of the furnaces and pull out a small blob of glass with his bare hand and start working it like taffy.
    The counter girl opens the door, letting the music escape: o/` —ERE'S A DRAGON WITH MATCHES THAT'S LOOSE ON THE TOWN / TAKE A WHOLE PAIL OF WATER JUST TO COOL HIM DOWN / FIRE, FIRE ON THE MOUNT— o/`  The door mutes the music again; she walks up to the guy squishing glass in his hand, exchanges a few words, and returns to the front—during which interim, the music has been turned off or paused or something.  "He'll be up in just a sec," she explains.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Terry lets his eyes and mind wander, as they are wont to, but the blast of music from the door brings his attention back to the area.  It is then that he is able to notice that Nick is handling the glass in a very irresponsible and, potentially, fatal manner.
    Terry raises his eyebrows and huhs.  When she returns to tell him Nick is on his way, the redhead smiles and nods.  "Thanks.  Lovely stuff you guys have here."  He waves at the contents of the gallery.

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "Thanks.  We're kinda new, but we're making our mark on the art glass scene," she says.  "Feel free to look around while you wait, m'kay?"
    The glass handler—one assumes the Nick in question—takes a moment to put his handful of glass back into the furnace, and jogs over to the other side of the work space.  He vanishes from view for just a moment… and then reappears again, a thermos in hand, and flings the door open.  "Hey there.  You must be Terry, right?"  Not a Brooklyn accent.  He sounds Midwestern, in fact.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "The one and only.  And you must be Nick."  Terry is curious.  He offers his hand for a handshake, grinning at the man.  "You must have been at the rally.  I was over to the side with the rest of the press… I can't imagine how far that thing was kicked around."

Nick Lytton has posed:
    Nick shakes hands—his hand feels warmer than usual, but not uncomfortably so.  "Yeah, I was there.  I was hoping he might announce something actually interesting, but no.  Any more New York billionaires decide to run for the White House, they're going to need to start wearing numbers on their backs so we can tell them apart."  He chuckles, and shrugs.
    "I didn't notice the press pack, so I don't know how far this escaped from you," he continues, raising the thermos in question.  "I figured if it was important enough for you to put your email on, it was important enough for you to want it back."  He holds it out; it looks like it's been washed.  "Press, huh?  Times, Planet, Bugle…?  Or are you on the TV side?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Planet.  I'm just an intern."  The redhead shakes Nick's hand and notices the warmth… but is slightly disappointed it isn't hotter.  "I don't know about the billionaires—to be honest I'd prefer Stark running for president than, say, Lex Luthor.  Still, the next great Starkphone might have been what everybody was expecting he'd announce."
    He taps the thermos, "Well, I'm a lowly intern and this thing cost me sixty bucks.  It's supposed to keep things hot or cold for at least a full day, and it's mostly dent-proof.  You bet I was going to put my name on it."
    He looks around and adds, "So, are you the proprietor, or…?"

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "I was hoping for an orbital or lunar hotel.  New phone isn't worth all that hoopla… and if you ask me, neither is another rich guy with delusions of grandeur."  He laughs, and shrugs indifferently.  "Naw, I don't own the place.  I'm just the star of the show," he says, and glances at the counter girl.  "Right, Ginny?"
    Ginny shrugs back at him, but with a grin.
    Nick looks skywards, and can't suppress another chuckle.  "Alas, the prophet is not recognized in his own home, right?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "It's a wonder, especially since you clearly know how to handle yourself when the temperature rises."  He smirks.  "You're not from around here, I gather?  Either that or you're trying out your accents for the next round of community theater auditions.  You can never tell, in New York."

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "Me?  Naw.  Transplanted Buckeye.  Glass arts are strong in Toledo, but New York's the hub of the world, you know?"  Nick shrugs, and then offers, "Care for the nickel tour?  Be glad to show you around the place, or at least the corners of it I inhabit."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Oh yes, please!  How long have you been open?"  Terry starts taking mental notes.  Just in case the place turns out to be something worthy of highlighting.  Outside of the fact that one of its workers can handle burning glass, though, nothing quite jumps out to distinguish it from other glass galleries.  But he could be wrong.  "How's business been since you opened to the public?"

Nick Lytton has posed:
    Nick leads the way back into the studio area.  "It's been not bad.  I'm not lacking for commissions, which is a good thing.  Especially considering rent in the city.  I don't know how people live here on less than a million a year… no, wait, yes I do, I don't make near that much yet."
    Nick's path has been to the furnace area; it's quite warm.  The fans can only do so much.  And the particular furnace he heads towards doesn't have fans blowing the heat away, so it might be environmentally challenging.  "Speaking of commissions, excuse me a sec," he says, and reaches into the crucible for a handful of glass again, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do.  "This one's due end of next week so I really need to get it in the annealing oven soon's I can.  Anywho," he continues, kneading the blob of glass in both hands, "this is the hot shop, and it's probably obvious why it's called that.  It's hot."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Yes, I can see why…."  Terry decides to see how long it takes him before he needs to fan himself.  It's a little game.  "I admit it's seldom that I see someone with powers finding a vocation that suits them to a tee.  I saw glass being blown the traditional way when I went to Venice with my mom, but this is the first time I've seen it is treated like silly putty."  The redhead grins, looking at Nick's hands as he kneads the do–glass.

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "Yeah, I don't have the superhero drive.  But it seemed a shame to waste what little power I got, and I got the artistic bent anyway," Nick explains, stretching out the glob into a sheet, and then holding it horizontally so that a depression, then a bowl, naturally forms under gravity.  He lets it sink a little until it sags into the shape of a tall, slender champagne flute.  While taking some of the excess glass from the mouth of the cup, he continues, "Yeah, Venetian is amazing—if you're interested, check out Gudenrath over at Corning.  He's just about completely rediscovered and reinvented the medieval art.  Me, I'm more of a modernist."  He forms the excess glass into a slender, delicate stem and foot, and affixes it to the bottom of the cup.
    Whether or not he's noticed the temperature effects on his visitor is unknown—but perhaps thankfully, he heads into a cooler area of the shop, to deposit the finished work in a large kiln.  "Your mom an artist too, or were you just traveling?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Oh, she's a P.I.  She was tracking someone, marital infidelity case.  I just came along because of course I wasn't going to stay behind."  Terry grins, and tilts his head.  He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.  "So you are heat-resistant… what other hidden talents do you have?  Can you breathe fire?"  He grins.  "Modernism has its place.  I probably would go for it for decor because of how clean and smooth the lines are.  Encourages serenity."

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "I only breathe fire after drinking Bacardi 151," Nick replies with a snicker.  "But then, who doesn't?  Anyway, so far as I know, nothing more than heat generation and resistance.  It didn't seem enough to put on Spandex and pick a cool name."
    He opens a small fridge, inviting Terry to help himself—mostly bottled water.  He's got coffee in a heavy glass mug he presumably made himself.  "And really," he continues, heading towards a desk with a glass (predictably) nameplate reading 'N LYTTON', "you think about all the shit the heroes have to put up with, even though they're protecting people and property.  The first person who gave me attitude about being meta after I'd saved someone would find their car a puddle of slag in the morning."  He blinks, and adds, "Uh, that's off the record, of course.  Christ, that's all I'd need is some gene-purity activist taking that seriously…."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "You don't need to worry, everything you say to me is off the record until we decide to do an interview.  I do see an interesting angle—the man who shapes glass with his own hands makes for a good image."  He takes a bottle of water, gratefully, and begins to drink it, careful to sip slowly.
    "So how much do some of these pieces go for?  I imagine they're pretty far off my payscale.  What's the target clientele for Empire?"

Nick Lytton has posed:
    Nick grins broadly.  "The higher the better.  I mean, I'd love to have a commission from Stark or Luthor or someone on that scale.  I've always kinda wanted to do a chandelier—not worth doing as a project on its own because that's a huge thing to have to store if it doesn't sell."
    He pulls a booklet out from under a rough and gritty blob of… glass?… and makes a note in it.  "But really, only the custom work gets megapricey.  I can't charge $500 for a bauble that any other glassblower or lampworker would turn out for $20—even if it is more 'made by hand' than usual.  I've had a couple commissions in the five digit range, but most are in the high hundreds to low thousands.  We do pretty good with the Manhattanites, but that's where the money is.  All of us do some smaller pieces from time to time, too—I think a fan of non-spectacular means should be able to get something of mine if they want it, without having to mortgage their children or something.  I got a couple knick-knacks out front right now that are under a hundred."
    He hefts the rough blob a couple times, and puts it back on the ledger book.  "Of course, my client list is private… well, other than letting you know I'm not doing anything for Stark or Luthor."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
   "You might want to consider… hmm."  Terry strokes his chin.  "I guess it depends on how much your gallery is willing to take a bet on a publicity move.  You could always do something like, say, a glass sculpture of the goddess Athena and give it as a gift to the Themysciran embassy in thanks for what Wonder Woman has done.  Heck, make it an event, that'll put your gallery on the map.  A lot of people go through that Embassy lobby, and if the work ends up getting displayed there… who knows?"  He shrugs.  "You might get some people calling with some high-level commissions."

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "Actually," Nick begins, then stops, thinking—and then decides to go forward with it.  "Okay, this is way off the record for right now, but you heard of that big Pro-Moronic—"  He stops and "corrects" himself quite disingenuously.  "Sorry.  That big Pro-Humana gala thing?  I'm tentatively planning a fundraiser for mutant rights.  Set up a scholarship for meta kids to go to college, help fund some of the support groups, that sort of thing.  Won't be a huge overblown affair like theirs.  I can let you know when plans are solidified and you can pass that along to whatever the right desk at the Planet is.  It won't be until the weather's less awful."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Sounds like a good idea.  Get big humanitarians like Wonder Woman involved, and you'll get a ton of people attending."  Terry nods, tapping his chin.  "You will let me know, right?  I request first scoop rights."  He grins and winks, taking a sip from his bottle.

Nick Lytton has posed:
    "You got it," Nick promises.  "Tell you the truth, I was thinking about going to that gala thing—one of my regulars offered to pay for the ticket.  Assuming I hadn't got stopped at the door, I was going to play nice up until someone noticed I was turning the champagne glasses into… oh, I dunno, I hadn't decided yet.  Three-sided DNA helices, unflattering busts of whatzername that organized it, something.  And then we decided that they didn't deserve the money, since it would only go to do bad things to innocent people."
    He grins, just a little savagely.  "That, and I realized I couldn't sit and play nice long enough to make it effective."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "I'm assigned to cover it.  I am not looking forward to it, myself," Terry says, sighing.  Then, he looks at his phone and frowns.  "In fact, I have to meet my boss to get instructions on it in an hour or so, so I should be heading out fairly soon."
    Terry looks around, and hmms.  "I do think that a write-up would be a thing.  Can combine it with your scholarship, so let's keep in touch.  We can do lunch next time… and if I start making any acquaintances that are into the expensive glass business, I'll send them your way in thanks for rescuing my far too expensive bottle."

Nick Lytton has posed:
    Nick sips his coffee, frowns, and yeah, dips his finger into it whereupon it almost immediately begins steaming again.  "Ooo, you have my sympathies.  Well, try not to get any of the evil on you," he says with a smirk, "and have a bottle of disinfectant handy when you leave.  You don't want any of the stupid to stick to your clothes."  Gee, wonder if Nick has any opinions about this?
    He dries off his hand, and offers it to shake—if taken, it will be of more or less normal warmth, not super hot.  "I appreciate that, Terry.  And I'll definitely keep you in the loop with regard to our little shindig.  I don't think we'll reach the scale of That Other Event, but if we can make a difference, that's all I want."
    He grins slyly.
    "Well, okay, and a little additional notoriety can't hurt.  No such thing as bad publicity, right?"