7765/Appreciating Art

Appreciating Art
Date of Scene:	09 September 2021
Location:	Poisoned Pen Collective
Synopsis:	Circumstances force Lonnie to attend an art gala as his newfound identity. It turns out he and Natasha do not get along well.
Cast of Characters:	Natasha Cranston, Lonnie Machin, Tim Drake

---

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Ever so often, the Poisoned Pen holds a 'debutant gala' - which is a fancy way of saying "We're going to show off work from a bunch of as-of-yet entirely unknown newbies who could really do with a boost in exposure and a good sale or two". Rich patrons and would-be patrons of the arts show up to look for anything novel and interesting that can make them look sophisticated; poor and down-on-their luck artists show up because they really need the money; other artists show up to be seen and make connections.

    Somehow, Tim had neglected to tell Lonnie that 'Theodore Draper' was on their lists as a possible invitee until the invitation - hand-written calligraphy on artisanal paper, in fact - makes its way into the mail drop Tim had set up.

    You are cordially invited to our bi-annual etc etc etc... Debut contributions by some of Gotham's newest talent bla bla bla... Refreshments are on the house yadda yadda... Plus-one, RSVP, sincerely hoping to see you there...

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Then: "No." Lonnie said, as he looked at the invitation. "No way. No no no no n-o spells NO." He shook it at Tim. "Absolutely not. No way." He held up his hands, "I don't even have an artist's portfolio! I'm not an artist, I'm an anarchist! I weaponize art in order to undermine the destructive status quo!" He waves his hands at Tim.
    Now: Theodore Draper stands outside of the gala opening, dressed in his hipstery getup - he's wearing a bow-tie, ironically and he says "I wish I could pull this alpaca wool cap down and swallow my entire body in it. I SWEAR I remember telling you 'no'."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Lonnie's many protestations are met with several slow nods from Tim. Yes, he understands. Mmhmm. Indeed that is how to spell no!

    Then as soon as Lonnie's back is turned, Tim fills out the RSVP card (plus one dutifully checked off) and mails it in.

    Technically his cover identity's last name is also Draper, but Tim sticks to 'Al' because it'd be weird if they tried to pass off as being brothers at this point, and pretending to be married is... just too much of a tropey cliche for him to even consider. Besides, it's Theodore that's the man of the hour. Tim is just here to play at being his dense-but-attractive assistant.

    "I think the hat really works for you, though," Tim says, because he's enjoying himself too much not to tease. He's wearing one too, the same backwards baseball cap, but he has at least switched out the tank top that goes with this particular fake identity with a nice plaid button-up. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he has the colored contacts and expertly applied makeup to make it look like he has a scar across his nose. "It'll be good for our cover story. Just keep an eye out for any cameras, alright?"

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    'Theodore' 's invitation is taken, checked and graciously accepted by the well - but not too well, the Poisoned Pen has a 'rebel' image to maintain - dressed greeter. Al gets a curt nod and a once-over before tacitly being dismissed as either arm candy or a boyfriend to be impressed...

    Inside, the 'gala' seems somewhat understated -- rather than a central announcement, various expositions are scattered around the area, properly labeled, while the artists responsible hover around them to answer questions from interested onlookers -- trying to make that sale, in a quite literal sense. The audience seems divided more or less evenly between fellow but more successful artists offering praise, criticism, or both at once as they dissect representations and techniques, and the more obviously rich people -- both groups are well dressed, but even to Lonnie's casual assessment the latter's clothes are much more expensive.

    Some of the former have attached themselves like 'native guides' to one rich person or another, possibly angling for either a patronage, or a cut of the sale, or both. Lonnie gets a few warn-off glares from them -- he's not a familiar face, they don't want him intruding on 'their turf' -- but those are in the minority.

    Meanwhile, a vaguely familiar woman is standing by the drinks table, sipping champagne while chatting with one of the non-displaying artists...

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Uuuuuuuuugh," Lonnie says under his breath, "This is so Bougie - there's nothing worse than a rich parasite who pretends he's not, like one of those parasites that infects a snail-" He grimaces, before he sucks in a breath, and then casually sweeps up a canape and takes advantage of being over six feet tall to tower over the crowd. The heels on the expensive boots Tim had to make him wear really make him look like a giant.
    A conversation with someone happens, and Lonnie says, "I'm thinking of doing a crack on old-fashioned renaissance portraiture. Explorations of the human body. You know, Al used to be an underwear model! Al, show her your abs." He snags a glass of champagne but, unsure if he wants to drink it, he merely inhales the carbonation for now. He's not far from where Natasha is standing.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's job is to make agreeable noises to the art BS Lonnie says and subtly keep his eyes scanning the crowd. He's not taking advantage of the canapes, but he does briefly take the glass of champagne from Lonnie to sip from it. "I don't think it's that kind of party, Theo," he says with a perky smile, after the request for him to unbutton his shirt.

    When he spots Natasha, he links his arm in Lonnie's for the purpose of squeezing him, lightly, as he points his chin in her direction.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Natasha laughs suddenly at something her would-be guide is saying, half turning with the motion in order to put her drink down somewhere safe, her eyes passing over 'Theodore' and 'Al' briefly without appearing to recognize either one. "Oh, that's hilarious, Freddie. Absolutely brilliant. But I'm sure you've got things to do and I really shouldn't be taking up so much of your time, off you go..."

    'Freddie' recognizes the dismissal for what it is and manages to cover up his disappointment with an almost-sincere looking smile which runs away from his face the moment his back is to Natasha as he slinks off, looking for another mark.

    Natasha smiles brightly to herself - an expression which takes a good ten points off her estimated IQ, increasing to fifteen when she follows it up by grabbing a fresh glass and looking around the room again while she sips.

    Her eyes widen in delighted surprise when she sees 'Theodore' standing nearby and she immediately closes the range with the boundless confidence of the stupidly rich or badly inebriated -- and right now she looks like she's trying to qualify for both categories at once. "My, you look familiar. Have we met before?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Internally, Lonnie has a momentary sinkhole of despair, but externally he doesn't crack. "I don't think so!" He says brightly. "Theodore Draper. It was really an honor to be invited to this Soiree. Though," He sighs, "I don't know... being avowedly anti-establishment, how can I in good conscience participate in this kind of organized activity-"
    He poses, thoughtfully. "I was just musing to someone about an art project I'm thinking of starting in which people are invited to do their laundry on Al's abs. It would be participatory art! But Al's sensitive to polyester." He pouts.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim is the picture perfect image of a genderswapped ingenue. The attractive smile he keeps plastered on his face really does suggest that he's having a perfectly pleasant time, looking around aimlessly as he steals Lonnie's champagne. When his name is mentioned--well, when his abs are mentioned, again--he blinks and tips his head. "I have allergies," he says with regret, before he leans up on his toes to peer over Lonnie's shoulder at a waiter passing by with a tray.

    Aw, darn. Mini beef wellingtons. He sinks back down on his heels and into his affected slouch.

    "Hi," he tells Natasha, after a moment, and then tilts his head. His arm around Lonnie gives another subtle but significant squeeze.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Natasha smiles delightedly as she put her drink down to extend her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mister Draper. Natasha Cranston - but please, call me Natasha. 'Miss Cranston' makes me feel old," she laughs, tucking away a few obviously well dyed hairs behind her ears. "... And I'd like to think I'm not that old just yet," she continues, looking from 'Theodore' to 'Al' and back when suddenly her eyes widen and a downright wicked smile crawls across her face.

     "... 'Al' wouldn't be short for Alvin, would it? I take it Simon had a prior engagement?" she then asks with an almost too straight face...

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie coughs, gently, and then he casually snags one of those miniature steak-in-a-pastries off of the tray as it passes by - without looking at it - and he casually pops it into his mouth. He chews, thoughtfully, mentally cataloging the mouth-watering decadence of the despised elite - of course if parasitism wasn't so delicious nobody would be a parasite -
    "It's just a coincidence, I assure you," Lonnie says, before he rests his arm on Al's shoulder and then he murmurs, "So, Ms. Cranston-" Damn it, his contempt for the elite slipped out there- "...What can Al and I do for you?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "My mom named me for one of her teachers in college. He's a doctor, he specializes in epi..." Tim pauses, and his expression crumples into one of outright mystification. "Um, in philosophy." He shrugs the shoulder Lonnie isn't resting against. "No one ever thinks the name suits me, though, so I go by Al."

    He drops that whole backstory like it's nothing, like it's real, and he even manages to give a good impression of some sort of hidden, depressing backstory by the way he briefly looks off into the middle-distance, brow furrowed and gaze somber.

    But then Lonnie keeps playing along, and Tim snaps to. He smiles again. "Are you here looking to support some of the local artists?" he asks, as if there are other reasons for Natasha to be here.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Natasha's vapid smile should probably have a place of honor alongside the other works of art in the room.

    "Well," she replies, waving her left hand languidly to indicate the room while picking up a fresh glass with her right. "I came here to spend some money and getting some new artwork to spruce up the lobby of the main office, as your friend correctly guessed, but I seem to be without a knowledgeable guide at the moment. I don't suppose you'd be willing to explain some of these sculptures to me? Freddie had a lot to say about them, even if most of it were badly veiled hints that he could do better..."

    She indicates a nearby set of sculptures ranging from on-the-fireplace small to medium, blending impressionistic with abstract...

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie screams internally, because his opinion of most of this art is what one might politely call 'scathing' - but outwardly, he gives a twisted little smile and he says, "Of course!" He gestures, waving a hand, "Al minored in Art History! His major was Fashion." He strolls along.
    "This one captures the existential angst of being a member of the Bourgeoise and being both aware of one's parasitic nature and unfulfilling life, but also the unrepentant refusal to do anything about it and seek a more authentic life." He beams. "And this one-" He studies the next sculpture. "...Looks like garbage somebody took out of a dumpster and artfully arranged."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim trots along at Lonnie's side, outwardly happy as a clam to be included. "I can guess the era of any painting in a museum! My teachers said it wasn't a marketable skill but look where I am now." Arm candy for a street artist. While Lonnie's mental voice might be screaming, Tim's has just descended into hysterical laughter, teetering on the edge of outright insensibility.

    Dutifully, he nods along at the salient points of Lonnie's art critique. He even makes a few soft "Mmhmm" noises, pursing his mouth to mirror Lonnie's distaste. Though at one of the statues he stops and says, "I dunno, this one's kinda nice."

    He shoots a look at Lonnie when they can manage to break eye contact with Natasha, and he lifts his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion, before he gives a little shake of his head.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    "A very impressive skill," Natasha agrees readily with Al, taking another sip from her glass as she listens to "Theodore"'s commentary. "... Hmm. Tempting, especially to tease my secretary, but sooner or later the janitor would make a mistake and we'd have an embarassing incident..."

    She gives the arrangement one last look, then turns back to 'Theodore' with a small shrug. "So, what around here would you recommend? Be honest..."

    There's something in her undertone that Tim might recognize because it's not aimed at him. Just the slightest hint of teasing challenge, a subtle but surprisingly well aimed picador's jab at what Lonnie has been trying to hold in...

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Theodore exhales a breath, and then he says with surprising sincerity. "Part of art's purpose is to provoke emotion, to create sensation and stimulate the mind. The argument is whether Art is only 'allowed' to provoke pleasurable emotions. I don't think that's the case. Art should also be able to provoke anger and even disgust. This art... doesn't really make me feel anything. That's why it's Bourgeois."
    He gestures to a graffiti mural. "If I was going to pick something, it would be this piece. These are stylized gang signs representing the alliance between an established Puerto Rican gang and a gang formed by young Burmese immigrants who've agreed to share and protect their territory rather than engage in violence against each other. They've transcended something ugly - street violence - and created something beautiful, which they represented here, in a semiotic form."

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's no obvious sign that Tim's picked up on what Natasha is trying to do, but within moments he's hugged himself a little more tightly to Lonnie's side, even as attention visibly seems to wander away. On the lookout for canapes that he can eat, at a guess, since his gaze skips from one waiter to the next.

    But he's still listening, and he bites on the inside of his cheek, though as it turns out there's no real reason for him to be concerned. His mouth twitches into a smile that he hides behind another teeny tiny sip of champagne, and then he exhales slow through his nose.

    "Do you know where the bathroom is?" he asks, abruptly, and then he slots his hand into Lonnie's. "Nevermind, I see the sign. We'll be right back." He winks at Natasha and then starts trying to drag Lonnie away.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Natasha replies, still smiling that guileless smile. "I mean, yes, art for the passion of Art is all good and wonderful, but at the end of the day, don't we all have bills to pay and a pantry to fill?"

    She sets her glass down and languidly waves a hand to indicate most of the gallery. "Much as some might wish it were otherwise, money makes the world go around. No one is exempt from that."

    She gives 'Theodore' another smile. "But I believe your friend needs a moment. Feel free; I'll be here..."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Money's not r-" When Tim starts dragging Lonnie away he gets cut off.
    "Al!" He says, "Right *now*?" He waves an arm and says, "He's such a savage, isn't he? I'll be back!" As they round the bend and Tim pulls him into the bathroom, that bland, smug expression falls away. "What, *What*?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Nope, no, if Lonnie is going to suggest that he's being dragged off for impure purposes, they're going to sell it. So Tim does a quick check of the bathroom for occupants (none, thankfully) and then pushes him into a stall. The door locks the door behind them, and he puts his hands up after.

    "I know, I know, this has gone sideways," he prefaces, and Tim has the good sense to at least try to look contrite. "But she's up to something. I can't say for sure if she recognizes us, because she's good. Seriously. My gut says her whole thing is an act, but it's believable enough that I can't get a read on her."

    His head turns as the background noise of the party cuts in, the door opening as someone comes in. "What do you think?" he asks, dropped to a whisper.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I think she might just be messing with our heads - specifically with mine. She must know we're playing pretend but how could she *possibly* know why?" Lonnie looks befuddled, and then he shakes his head slowly. "It doesn't make any sense."
    He takes Tim's hat off and begins casually mussing his hair - and then he pauses, and says, "...For God's sakes-" He pushes Tim against the side of the stall with a thud and leans in to kiss him, once - then he pulls back.
    "I forget we can just do that." He wrinkles his nose. "Maybe she's some kind of costumed criminal, but if she is, then why would she mess with us?"

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Natasha watches the pair go, still smiling that smile as she picks up a fresh glass, a slightly pensive expression flitting across her face as she sips. Eventually reaching some kind of decision she heads to the entrance.

    "Excuse me," she asks sweetly to the greeter. "Would you happen to have a piece of paper? And a pen? Thank you," she accepts both graciously, putting her glass down to write something on the paper before handing back the pen.

    She then folds the paper in half while taking out her phone, talking quietly in it for some time while keeping a surreptitious eye on the restroom door.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim fidgets with one of the cuffs of his sleeves as his eyes narrow, looking off in that considering way of his. "It doesn't. But she also rendered first aid to a stranger when she very well could have walked away with no consequences. So I think, whatever game she's playing, it's probably not dangerous." He pauses. "Not too dangerous," he corrects.

    He looks back when the hat is lifted from his hair, and his nose wrinkles faintly at the ruffling. Being manhandled against the wall doesn't catch him by surprise--turnabout is fair play, after all, and Tim is always expecting that--but the follow-up certainly does. When Lonnie pulls away, Tim blinks up at him for a moment before rising up on his toes (and having to do that is a weird sensation) to kiss Lonnie back.

    "This might be a bad idea, but I think we should let it play out," he says. He grabs hold of Lonnie's jacket and holds him still, his breath forcibly measured. "Especially because you're really, really good at this, and I'm starting to realize I find competency incredibly attractive."

    His head ducks down and he lets go of Lonnie so that he can slip the lock open on the stall door and step out, making a beeline for the sink because A. bathroom germs and B. maintaining cover. Al is not a smart guy but he has good hygiene, thank you very much.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie does his best to tamp down a furious blush, which with his complexion is spectacularly incarnadine. He gives his hands a quick wash and rinse and dries them on his pants, because bathroom air-blowers are *filthy* and then when they walk back out, he pushes his hand on Al's shoulder. "Sorry about that, Al just had to - tell me something."
    "Anyway." He makes a show of regaining his snotty composure. "What were we talking about before?"

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Natasha is just picking up a fresh glass as 'Theodore' returns. "Mhmm," she murmurs, giving the pair a poor attempt at a sly look. "I'm sure it was important. Anyway, you were about to share your views on money, the bourgeoisie and possibly capitalism in general with me, I believe..."

Tim Drake has posed:
    As they walk out, Tim mutters, "And stop trying to get me to take off my shirt. We're in public," as he elbows Lonnie lightly in the side. The motion smoothly transitions into him settling his arm around Lonnie's waist again, comfortably, as they return to where Natasha has been waiting.

    "It was very important," he agrees, and the grin he flashes is more than a fair bit devilish. Even Tim himself would be surprised he managed to pull that off.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie clears his throat. "Was I?" He looks over at Tim, "Was I? I guess I was. Well, the acquisition of Lucre is nothing more than - acquiring points in a video game. It really has no purpose other than serving as an abstract representative of accomplishment, of doing well - it pushes the same button. It defeats the concept of a currency, which is supposed to be as a stand in for the direct exchange of goods and services. ...As we transition to a cashless society, money is quite literally not real, because the banks can effectively print as much of it as they want to inflate the points totals of the Elites-"
    He looks about. "...But this is just a slightly more encapsulated version of the same thing. It's jockeying for status in a closed, exclusive society without really accomplishing anything. What will happen to most of this art after this exhibition? Will it enrich a public space? Will it even be displayed in somebody's home?"

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    Natasha's smile widens. "Well, those two charming sculptures in particular are going to be gracing the lobby of my newest office building downtown," she points out, indicating two reasonably good quasi-abstract sculptures depicting raptor birds about to take flight.

    "But yet... Money is also influence, and power. Those who have enough of it can shape the world as they see fit; make the rules all others have to play by..." She takes sip of her champagne, giving Lonnie an almost challenging smile over the rim of her glass.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Let it play out, Tim had said, and now that is what's going to happen. He can't really chime in on the conversation since his cover identity is wholly out of his depth, but when Lonnie looks at him, Tim tilts his chin up slightly and smiles in a way that is maybe a touch more sly than befitting Al.

    But that's as much as he offers. He's on the lookout for canapes again, and a tray of mini quiche seem to attract his attention for a while before he gets a good enough look to see that they're probably bacon and cheese. His teeth dig into the inside of his cheek.

    "Those are nice," he says, of the statues Natasha has selected. And then he can't help himself. "Where downtown is your office going to be?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "But that's a rigged game." Lonnie replies. "Because it's impossible to get enough of it to compete with the Rupert Thornes and Roland Daggetts of the world, and the elites who might be ethical and foster equity are few and far between." Lonnie replies. "I mean, there are *numerous* Thornes and Daggetts for every Thomas Wayne or Jack Drake."
    He crosses his arms across his chest. "What you're slyly gloating over is a monstrous injustice, ma'am, and I find myself growing tired of this conversation."

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    "Understandable, I suppose," Natasha replies reasonably, setting down her glass before retrieving a folded-up paper from an inside pocket and offering it to Lonnie. "Allow me to make this one last point, and I'll leave you and your friend to yourselves..."

Tim Drake has posed:
    To his credit, Tim only blinks once at the mention of his deceased father, and he does a good job at continuing to look around as if he's more interested in the chance of free food than the discussion at hand.

    Lonnie will probably feel him go tense at his side, though.

    He looks back over when Natasha produces the slip of paper, because he's too much of a snoop not to. His eyes move back and forth between it, in Natasha's hand, and Lonnie's face. Then he gives a little squeeze around Lonnie's waist. Encouraging. Because Tim wants to see what it is.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie reaches out and snags the note with two fingers. He raises a challenging eyebrow, and then he opens it and reads it. He doesn't make any effort to hide it from Tim. "Well let's see what that is."

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    The paper - again, artisanal - unfolds to reveal a single email address -- 'thepowerofmoney@cms.com'.

    "You dislike me on general principle, simply because I'm rich. I suppose that's fair; as you say, very few of us do as well by society as we should. But still..."

    "You have a great deal of passion and conviction, that's obvious. I'd like to see if it outweighs your pride. So -- a game, of sorts. Every month, you can send the name of a charity of your choice to that address, and I'll arrange an anonymous donation of one hundred thousand dollars to it, no questions asked. And if you don't... The money will go to a random city's police officers' fund instead."

    She picks up a new glass and takes a sip while she lets the implications sink in. "So, what will you do, 'Mister Draper'? Keep your pride and throw that paper back in my face? Or save countless lives by swallowing your anger?"

    She leans back against the table behind her, looking sincerely interested in how Lonnie will react...

Tim Drake has posed:
    For the few scant seconds it takes Tim to read the email address on the paper, the close approximation of bland nothingness he's arranged on his face drops. He looks up at Natasha after, eyes narrowed, then his head turns away. He's back to pretending not to care, but there's something particularly measured about the way he's breathing now, and the cant of his head subtly indicates he's still listening in.

    But this isn't a challenge addressed to him, is it? So Tim stays quiet.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie raises his eyebrows, and he says, "You assume my compassion outweighs my pride. Ma'am." He folds the note up. "But it doesn't. You'll hear from me shortly, if in fact you're as good as your word." He tucks the paper away. "But there are a lot of people in need, and even if money isn't real, it's an imaginary idea that pulls a lot of levers."
    He gives his chin a defiant tilt. "Come on, Al! We can leave this bougie display and you can pose for me." He gives a haughty sniff, and pulls Tim out the door - outside he puts his head in his hands. "How do you DO this."

Natasha Cranston has posed:
    "My word is always good, Mister Draper," Natasha replies. "And now you have a /personal/ reason to dislike me." She gives a polite nod as Lonnie makes his departure, and then heads over to the sculptor to finalize her purchase - for enough money to support the artist for the next year; possibly two if she's frugal...

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim doesn't hazard a final glance over his shoulder towards Natasha, though he briefly considers it. Instead he lets his head drop and follows Lonnie through the crowd until they make it to the door, and then they're out into the open air. "Mostly I try to predict what might happen if I don't grit my teeth and bear it," he says, mildly. "And then I let that anxiety force me to keep going." He covers Lonnie's hands with his own and pulls them away. "Come on. I'll do some digging into Ms. Cranston, try to figure out what her angle is."

    He steps away, though he keeps his grip on one of Lonnie's hands. "...sensitive to polyester, really?" he asks, after a pause.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Please, like your wardrobe has ANY synthetics in it-" Lonnie says, crooking a challenging eyebrow. "Or anything off-the-rack that hasn't visited a tailor, for that matter." He pauses. "Well I mean if you don't want to pose for Theodore-" He tilts his chin up snottily, and puts his arm in Tim's, before he walks away - except that he's visibly corpsing while he does it.

Natasha Cranston has posed:
A good question; what is Natasha's game?

    Over a million dollars per year, given casually into Lonnie's hands to dispense as he sees fit; the number of lives he could save with that is almost beyond counting...

But why like this?

It seemed like she was making a point, but what point?

And why him?

            Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of Man?