7758/Outsider Art

Outsider Art
Date of Scene:	09 September 2021
Location:	Poisoned Pen Collective
Synopsis:	An undercover mission where no one suspects a thing about their fake identities and a dark, spooky basement that can't even muster up a good jump scare. Boring. And a good opportunity for Tim and Lonnie to talk things out.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Lonnie Machin

---

Tim Drake has posed:
    Getting the invite isn't an issue. The Waynes have long been a patron of the arts, as most rich folk are in some way or another, and there is more than one starving artist in residence here who has benefitted from Wayne patronage in the past. All it takes is another purchase and an offhand comment about a local street artist on the rise to get the ball rolling.

    Then some subtle manipulation of SEO algorithms to ensure that the wholly manufactured Sarvis gets linked to some of Anarky's real art across Gotham.

    Lonnie now exists in the system once again -- as the son of a successful plastic surgeon and his trophy wife who is revolting against his upbringing to preach the word of green anarchism to the masses. It both plays to Lonnie's strengths and makes Tim insufferably smug about welcoming him to the ranks of the bourgeoisie. Let it be known that one of Tim's strengths is in the creation of very convincing fake identities.

    Look, he was a kid when he started the whole Alvin Draper thing, please, stop rubbing it in, he was like 15!

    Tim himself has half a dozen fake identities he could slip into, but not today. It's basically a mutually assured destruction thing he and Lonnie have going on right now, which is maybe not the wisest idea, but on the other hand they dress up in costumes and punch criminals with guns a lot, so. You know. Whatever.

    "It's been a while since we've had someone new join," says the young woman who is waiting for them when they enter the larger of the two hangars that make up the Collective. She has rainbow-dyed hair and charcoal-dusted hands, which she wipes clean on the pair of threadbare jeans she's wearing before she reaches to shake Lonnie's hand. "I'm not the one who sponsored you, but Samir is busy--once they get going with a piece, you can't interrupt them! You know how it is, I'm sure."

    She smiles, a tongue piercing flashing between her teeth, and then she tips her head backwards. "Come on, let me show you the space we have set aside for you!"

    They pass dozens of constructed rooms as they walk, almost all filled with works in various stages of completion. Everything from the traditional to the highly experimental on display.

    It's almost like a museum, just one with very little quality control. Easy to get lost in, if they didn't have an actual purpose for being here. The Collective's gone through some hard times recently, and the lot they're on has changed hands several times. The most recent, as of yesterday?

    Why, Perreault & Richelieu, of course.

    There's underground space in the blueprints. It's just a question of getting access to it to plant surveillance equipment before the work begins, which is hard to do given that artists don't keep strict 9-to-5 schedules.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
Theodore Draper is a hipster. He has an expensive wool hat pulled on over his red curls, and thick black-rimmed glasses, and a t-shirt and suspenders and *skinny jeans* and *chelsea boots* and a tweed coat with leather patches.

"I hate this." He said, as he finished pulling it on. "I hate this so much. And I hate you. You know that right? I'm going to bear the stink of this - forever." But then he just sort of... *became* Theodore.

The smugness, maybe a little of that was natural, but whenever he talks the most ridiculous pretentious artsy claptrap just tumbles out of his mouth.

"My work explores the relationship between postmodern discourse and life as performance. With influences as diverse as Caravaggio and Francis Bacon, new tensions are created from both explicit and implicit meanings."

Then he gestures. "Excuse me while my assistant catches up with my tools, he's handsome but he's a little dim. Easily distracted by pretty colors. You know how it is with *men*, ugh."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim is smug. So smug. The smuggest. Even when he's relegated to being the muscle, which feels a little ridiculous, but he shows up in a tank top and tight jeans and steel-toed doc martens, and he even wears his baseball cap backwards, and honestly the smugness just kind of helps sell it. He has a little gelled poof of hair tumbling across his forehead and small gauge earrings that definitely don't look fake despite that they definitely are.

    Also colored eye contacts, and some subtle makeup and prosthesis application to make him look like he has a scar across the bridge of his nose. His face is the more famous of the two, but it's surprising how little effort it takes to throw people off the scent.

    He goes by Al. It's not like anyone is going to care enough about him to find out his backstory, since he's just here to lift things and look good.

    Soon enough he's at Lonnie's side, a suitably hipster canvas bag slung over one shoulder, reusable tote in hand, and plastic milk crate filled with cans of spray paint balanced against his hip. "Sorry, Theo--I parked at one of the new meters, and I had to figure out how to use the app to pay."

    Then his eyes move from Lonnie to their escort, and he looks her up and down once before smiling. "Hi," is all he says to her.

    She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, blushes, and stammers through "Sure--um--this way, please!"

    And then off they go.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
"Come on Al, I pay you to carry things, not to flirt. You can let her squeeze your biceps *later*." Lonnie gestures imperiously for Tim to walk after him - he's not wearing any prosthesis at all, he just kind of sank into the role.

"So what I'm looking to do is visually repurpose urban space, and free it from the constricting confines of the common accepted visual aesthetic. Repeating patterns and conventional colors are the tools of the oppressor. I say, why CAN'T a wall space be painted in electric green and neon hot pink swirls? Doesn't that break up the capitalist monotony of the space?"

"What I really require though is an undisturbed space in which to work, one with ZERO foot traffic. Is there anywhere in the collective you think I could get that?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Wait--do you mean after you're done squeezing them?" Tim asks, totally guileless, but then he winks at their tour guide--who hasn't introduced herself, but has the name Sienna embroidered on the smock she's wearing. "I thought that was really why you hired me?"

    Sienna is still blushing as she leads them down the main hallway. A good handful of artists peek their heads out of their studios as they pass by, one or two even calling out some form of greeting. She looks over at Lonnie, eyes wide at his explanation, but she does nod along. Either she's pretending to understand the complete nonsense coming out of Lonnie's mouth for propriety's sake or it's actually striking a chord with her.

    Either way, at his request she comes to a stop at a four-way junction made up by the happenstance of several surrounding studios being almost precisely the same size, equidistant to one another.

    She rubs her chin, unaware that she's smudging charcoal on her face. "Well, there's the basement? We use it for storage, some but it has a lot of the old props and equipment from back when this was used by the old studio next door. It's kind of a maze down there."

    Her weight shifts from one foot to the other again. Nervous habit, possibly.

    "I don't really like going down in there, but... well, it's not like anyone uses it. So long as you're okay with spiders?" Sienna flashes a tentative smile and looks between Lonnie and Tim, or rather Theodore and his as yet unnamed assistant.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I'm fine with them." Lonnie says, smoothly. "How about *you*, Al?" Then he crosses his arms, and says, "Al, please. You're pretty to look at but you understand nothing about art and how it both expresses and shapes the attitude of the zeitgeist. It's artists who truly rule the world, not politicians or potentates!"

"Still, the basement sounds great. Why don't you show us around down there? All I need is a space where I can set up my equipment, and then I can start to truly *create*. I can feel the creative impulse flowing through me!" He rubs his hands together.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim, on the inside: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

    Tim, on the outside: "I'm fine with whatever!"

    Then he waits until Sienna nods and turns to start leading them down towards the end of the makeshift hall to kick Lonnie in the shin.

    There's a door there, but it's almost entirely hidden within the bright, cartoonish figures of a mural. "I did the line work for this when we renovated last year," Sienna says, and she turns around to beam proudly at the both of them.

    And Al, since he knows nothing about art and how it both expresses and shapes the attitude of the zeitgeist, only offers up an "It's really pretty," which is true. She's a talented artist, as is whoever added the colors. Tim shifts the crate against his side and glances at Lonnie with thinly veiled trepidation as Sienna opens the door, which sticks a little bit and creaks when she finally manages to wrench it open, to reveal a dingy, shadowed set of stairs leading downwards.

    "Um, so..." Sienna does that shifting thing again. "My studio is five doors down on the left thataway," and she points. "If you need anything else...?" It looks very much like she doesn't want to go down into the spooky, spider-infested basement. Which, sure, that works just fine for their purposes, so Tim takes a breath and nods.

    As he passes her by, he smiles again and says, "Thanks," before taking the steps two at a time like he's not at all freaking out about the potential for creepy crawlies.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie, with the confidence of generally being a fearless cuss spun into an amiable kind of ignorance, charges ahead. "Very good, I'll send Al up if I need anything." He eats the kick to the shin with only a slight raising of his eyebrows, and then he descends down the stairs, holding his phone ahead of him like a flashlight before he finds the light switch and turns it on - only for it not to work. "Of course."
    Then he calls up, "We'll be fine! Thank you, Sierra!" Because of *course* he'd get her name wrong, he's a jerk.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Is that a hair falling loose from his hat or is there a spider on his neck? Gah. Tim scrunches his shoulders up as he waits at Lonnie's side for the lights to be turned on, only for the switch to do nothing. Lonnie's "of course" is echoed by a quiet groan on Tim's part, and then he squints at the shadowy shapes he can make out in the cone of light from Lonnie's phone.

    "Her name's--" But he catches on, and huffs out a breath. "You are incredibly convincing, it's almost alarming," he says, voice pitched low as he bends over to set down the crate and bags. A little rummaging is all it takes before Tim's found what he's looking for, and then a moment later a much more significant beam of light illuminates their surrounding area.

    A maze is definitely the right word for it. Down at the bottom of the steps is a small area that's been cleared out enough for the Collective to indeed use it for storage, but then there are shelves upon shelves of boxes further back, some labeled, others entirely mysterious, plastic and cardboard and occasionally overflowing.

    Tim sighs. "Well, let's hope they're not already here digging."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Live the role." Lonnie says, before he drawls, "But I have to say the same about you. You're doing an excellent job of portraying a man with a bicep circumference the same number as his IQ-" He looks around, and scans with his flashlight. "Well, I suppose we'll find out." He begins running a broad-spectrum scan off of his phone, looking for weird wi-fi signals or electromagnetic weirdness. A pipe goes CLUNK.
    "...So I suppose right now is a bad time to talk about before-" You know. Before.

Tim Drake has posed:
    So far, no weird signals. Everything past the neatly organized art supplies seems dusty enough to suggest the Collective has left it alone since inheriting the property, and no one else has yet disturbed it. Which isn't to say that'll be true going further into the maze.

    "No thoughts, head empty," Tim says with a snort as he slings the canvas bag, the one with surveillance equipment hidden inside, over his shoulder. He crowds in close to Lonnie's side as he shines the beam of his flashlight around for a few more seconds before gathering his courage and heading off into the darkness.

    Every once in a while he points it down at the ground in front of himself, to see if there are any signs of someone passing through. Nothing yet.

    "What, walking around in a dark basement where transhumanist cult members might jump out at us with their blade hands at any moment?" But then Tim shrugs, his flashlight's beam moving up and down a little in time with the motion. "We can talk about it."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well, good." Lonnie shines his flashlight along a stack of old crates and then he checks behind them - "There's a room hidden behind here." He begins to move the old crates, "Help me."
    As he stacks crates aside, he says, "Well, good. I'm glad we can talk about it." And then he focuses on moving crates, and doesn't talk about it.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Back down on the floor goes the bag, again. "Might be a janitor's closet," Tim says as he tries to place their current position on the admittedly outdated blueprint he'd managed to dig up. He steps in to help, as asked, muffling a few coughs into his shoulder as some dust gets into his nose.

    Soon enough the door is nearly clear, and Tim takes a few steps back to hold in a sneeze and wipe his hands off on his jeans with his nose scrunched, fighting off the urge to make even more noise.

    "Good talk."

    He pulls out an EMP device from the bag and hooks it onto his belt. Just to be safe. "It's--fine. I mean, I'm fine with what happened. But if you don't want to, you know, make anything of it, that's okay too."

    In fact this is not a good talk. This is a bad talk, and Tim sighs. "Somehow we work really well, both as friends and out in the field together. I don't want to mess that up with my, uh... issues." He fiddles with a handheld scanner that he has to hold his flashlight under the crook of his arm to use. "At the very least I should be able to pick up the heat signatures of the construction equipment--I've calibrated this to be pretty sensitive."

    After a moment, though, he shakes his head. "Nothing."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie continues to shift crates. "We should still check." Once they can get to the door, he tries the handle, and then grimaces. "It's stuck." He walks over to the bag and opens it, before he takes out a shaped charge and a detonator, and begins to mold it along the doorframe.
    "I liked it." He says, as he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while he gets the stuff in there. "But I've never even been on a date before."
    "I want to make something of it but I don't know what 'it' is." He steps back, and says "Would you like to do the honors?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim nods, and then realizes Lonnie probably can't see him doing so, so he says, "Yeah." He puts the scanner away and returns to the task of crate-moving, this time with his face carefully turned away so he doesn't inhale a noseful of dust again.

    When they've cleared the way, he steps back.

    "Most of the dates I've been on weren't real," he admits. "I've been in one actual relationship, though I don't think it lasted long enough to be considered serious. The rest were all fake. Or at least based on enough lies that I feel like a complete jerk for going out with them in the first place."

    He holds out his hand for the detonator. "It wasn't until I ended up on the wrong side of a manipulative relationship myself to realize that, though. So. Like I said, issues." Then Tim puts his hand on Lonnie's arm and pulls him back several more steps until they can take partial cover behind a shelf, overly cautious, before he depresses the trigger.

    His fingers squeeze into Lonnie's arm as the shaped charge detonates, and he looks over his shoulder. If there's anyone down here with them, they'll have heard that. Which would at least make it easier than them having to search this entire basement.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The charge goes *POPOPOPOPOPOPOP* - freeing the door from the frame and causing it to swing open with a creaky groan.
    "We're young, and I despise the insipid genre of young adult romance that talks about finding your true love before you even understand what that is. It's dishonest-"
    "We don't know what we want or where we'll wind up in life. So- I- want us to be "for right now."
    "Is - that all right?" He steps into the darkened doorway.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "There's an entire lecture to be given about how the depiction of romance in pop culture has seriously damaged the concept of what a healthy relationship actually is," Tim says. But then his head tips to the side. "Not that I'm the person to talk about healthy relationships. And sometimes it's nice to read about people who figure out what they want in life, and who they want to spend it with, though."

    The swing of his flashlight across the cluttered space behind them reveals no lurking horrors, beyond the glint of a spiderweb across an empty shelf. Tim rubs his nose against the inside of his arm, still feeling the itch of dust particles, and then follows after Lonnie.

    Oh, look. Another staircase. This one leads back up to the Collective above, but it also has more steps leading down to another level below. "I'm fine with whatever." And then, as Tim stands looking down the stairs, he elbows Lonnie in the side lightly. "And that's me saying it. Not Alvin." He smiles.

    Down he goes, free hand ghosting along the rail. "That smells like oil, doesn't it? Old, though. Maybe the building's facilities were down here at some point."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Hmmmmmm." Lonnie sniffs the air. "An oil boiler?" He descends the steps after tim, and then he looks down. "I just - don't know how to do this. But I do know that you've been a wonderful friend. And - well - the kissing was good. I liked that. I think the last person I kissed was my Gamma, on the cheek, at Christmas. I was seven."
    He looks around again, and holds up the light. "I'm a litle amused by all that talk about cryptids, and here's us stumbling around in the dark."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's nose wrinkles, and he turns to wipe his face against his sleeve, but--right--no sleeves. He sighs. "Maybe. I can't get the smell of dust out of my nose." The door at the bottom of the steps is stuck, but not to the degree that the one above was, and with a few sharp tugs Tim manages to wrench it open. Beyond it is, again, more darkness.

    "Definitely an oil boiler." The smell is stronger now, but still with that tinge of age to it, a gritty sort of scent. "If they're going to dig, it'll be down here," he adds.

    Before he steps over the threshold, Tim pauses, reaching out to find Lonnie in the dark. His hand touches Lonnie's wrist, and then slips down to squeeze their fingers together. "It's not like throwing ourselves headfirst into danger is out of character." Though when he pulls away and starts walking forward, no actual danger presents itself. Just the rusting behemoths of old equipment, long abandoned, and empty space. Tim's flashlight shines over several makeshift seating areas that have been down here so long that some of the furniture has started to break down. Old card table, empty bottles, that sort of thing.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie shrugs. "Huh. Usually when I follow my gut instinct it leads me in the right direction, but I guess this time it just led me into a sub-basement." He pauses. "You are - ah - rocking the gun show by the way." He stops short, and squinches up his nose. "I can't believe I just said that."
    In a moment of annoyed pique, he kicks a bottle away into the dark. It goes *tink-clunk* and rolls away across the floor out of sight.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Compliments usually make Tim vaguely uncomfortable, but this one earns a sharp, surprised burst of laughter. "Th-thanks?" he says-slash-asks, and as he turns away to keep looking around, he's still letting out wheezy chuckles underneath his breath.

    As the bottle rolls away, out of sight, nothing happens. Until a sudden cry breaks through the quiet--"Sorry! Web. There was a spider web. I almost walked into it."

    Tim takes several steps back and lets out a full-body shudder before he dumps the canvas bag onto the ground a final time. "Come on, let's get this all set up. Then we can get out of here and find some place upstairs for you to paint a bunch of hot pink spirals on a wall and call it art." He starts pulling out surveillance equipment, sensors, a mix of equipment from both of their hoards.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie sets to, and gets to work setting up that equipment. He's skilled with it - he works quickly, and he gets it all put together right the first time. "This is a good place for it, we can stack the crates back up in front of the door and nobody's going to come down here." His stuff is - well a lot of it's scavenged, bought second-hand, or even just made himself. He's a whiz with a soldering iron. Practically a surgeon with one.
    "This has been - a lot of fun. I enjoy what I do but I don't usually think of it as fun. So, thanks. Al."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Naturally, most of Tim's equipment is quite the opposite, or at least he has access to facilities that can make things that look manufactured. And between the two of them, they can blanket the entire area with enough tech that if anything comes down here with the intent to bury something beneath the building, they'll know. "They've upgraded to modern HVAC, for sure. We're probably the first people in here since whoever snuck down here for their last break in the 30s." He pulls out his tablet from the bag and starts checking for signal strength on their transmitters.
    "Not all undercover ops are fun, but I'm definitely enjoying this one." Tim bites the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the screen. "You, um--you look good, by the way. But... I think I like you in your punk gear better. It suits you."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Ugh, I hate it. I can't wait to get out of this Bougie Suit and into some real clothes. It feels like I'm wearing some kind of awful halloween costume." He continues to look down at his work. "You really are very handsome though. It might be helpful to you if you leverage that - now and again. I mean I guess I understand having to keep a low profile, or just being shy. I'm really not."
    He does a final inspection of the equipment while Tim checks for signal strength. "I did always think you and the... purple girl? The Ruiner? No, no..."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "The suspenders are maybe a little much," Tim admits. He taps at the screen for a few moments longer before he nods, and briefly flips it towards Lonnie. It shines with a whole lot of green bars. "We should be good to go. I have it routed through to a backup server in a safehouse, just to be careful." The bright illumination of the tablet's screen cuts off, and Tim puts it away before he starts looking around for any obvious signs of their presence that they might be leaving behind.

    Back to being uncomfortable about compliments. He huffs out a breath. "It's easier to downplay it. I would really like to avoid topping any 'most eligible bachelor' lists, that's attention I don't need." He eyes the spiderweb that he'd nearly shoved his face through earlier. "I don't even want to think about how the press would have a field day about my sexuality."

    Satisfied with his own inspection, Tim shoulders the now much less heavy bag. "Spoiler?" he offers, without any follow-up.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Yes! That's her. I apologize for forgetting her name." Lonnie snaps his fingers. "Well, I suppose I owe HER the apology-" He clears his throat. "Anyway." He gets up, and brushes his hands off, "I just thought you two were... cute." He finishes, lamely. "Once upon a time."
    He changes the subject. "Developing a reputation as a rake can actually be excellent deflection. If everybody assumes you're the banal idle rich, it'll enable you to effectively cover the positive changes you're looking to make - though it might make it hard to get people to take you seriously. I - chose a different route, anyway."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "The media already links me to women I've never even met before, to the point I've apparently been dating a model from Metropolis since *February*. I have no idea who she is or where we supposedly met!" Tim sucks in a breath and realizes this is not the place for him to go on a rant about this, so he starts back towards the door. "We dated, but that was a long time ago. She's still a good friend, though."

    He tips his head. "Thinking back, she's probably the only girl I know who hasn't been rumored to be my girlfriend," he says, thoughtfully, as he stands at the door, holding it open with his foot. "Plenty of people use that as a cover story. I could probably manage, but I'm not okay with how many people I'd have to manipulate to sell it. So I guess I took a different route too."

    He swings his flashlight towards Lonnie, and then aims the beam back up towards the stairs, like someone on a tarmac leading a plane in to the gate. "Now can we please get out of here before a spider crawls up my arm or something?" he asks, and underneath the humor in his voice is actual concern. Tim has had enough of spiders for a lifetime.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I might have to invent a new public identity. After I went to so much trouble to delete my real one. Ugh-" Lonnie steps out of the boiler room and proceeds to disguise the entrance by piling the crates up in front of it. "See? Nobody'll notice." Sure, the shaped charge did a little damage, but it's dark down here.
    As they're preparing to leave, he puts his hand on Tim's arm. "You can be as private a person as you like." He says, easily. "It's your right as a human being."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim dusts his hands off again once the crates are back in place, and his inspection via flashlight proves what Lonnie is saying is true. "What, is Theodore not good enough for you?" His nose scrunches up, and this time he can't quite fight off the sneeze, so he tucks his face into his elbow. Still, it echoes off the walls, even muffles, and it makes him grimace.

    "The same goes for you," he says. "You don't have to come up with some public identity for my sake, if--that's why you brought it up. I don't care about that. I'm happy to just, you know, pick up food somewhere and hang out at home."

    His mouth twitches, and he looks away, but he doesn't quite manage to do so fast enough to hide the smile on his face. "Maybe we should go through the drive-thru at Batburger next time, though."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie thinks that through - and then the corner of his mouth curves up in a smirk. "But then we wouldn't be able to take in the cloying corporate ambiance." He shrugs lightly, as he trails his way back up the stairs and out of the dark. "Come on, let's get out of here before your allergies flare up. Then you'll be sitting there trying to look stoic with a runny nose and watery eyes. Bad look for you."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Well, I haven't finished collecting all the toys. I get Red Hood every time. Every time! They can't advertise the whole range of Bat-family figures and only ever get Red Hood." Tim sniffs, more because of the dust than anything. "The apple fries are good, though." He follows Lonnie up the stairs and back out into the shared space of the Collective.

    And maybe they hit up Batburger on the drive home.