Lamb to Slaughter [Claude]

[Kendal]

deets:
wardrobe
shoes
carrying

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Outside Nightmode, Redwood. 7:01 pm.

Curiosity killed the cat.

His thumb rapidly tapped the middle button at the bottom of his phone three times to exit the email app before he shoved the device into the back pocket of his dark jeans, where it sat heavily as a reminder that would soon be forgotten. His free hand, between its middle and index fingers, held what was a slowly dying cigarette. The cherry, still lit though just barely, matched the sky as the sun began to set, dipping below the line of the horizon, leaving behind a show of bright colours to welcome the oncoming night with. Similarly, at the speed of the descending sun, the gold and vermillion embers were receding deep into the filtered stick, leaving behind a grayish white husk so fragile that it broke away into nearly undetectable specks at the slightest touch from the Autumnal evening wind. It was brisk and cold as the winds tended to be during the Fall season but the way it whipped about could only be the warning of approaching rainfall. The clouds seemed to agree as they began to smear across the sky, soaking up what little light that was left, casting a bluish light on the city below.

His dark lashes lowered as the same breeze picked up again, blowing the stream of smoke he'd just expelled, right back into his face. Kendal Baxter turned away with a scowl teasing the corners of his lips before they parted around a short cough and he used the knuckle of his thumb to rub at his left eye, the lit cherry nearly grazing the twines of platinum blonde that had escaped from under the fleece hood that covered his head. It was an eleven block walk to Nightmode from Swansdale station. The very same Nightmode he'd woken up behind a few nights prior with a terrifyingly old man glowering at him. The memory of the blade running across his hand made the nearly healed slit of skin over his palm tingle under the weight of his leather glove; a part of him hoped no one recognized him from his embarrassing test drive of the Cleansing Chant he'd had to perform while another part of him hope someone would recognize him because, my, what an astronomically powerful force the chant must've been to knock him out like that. And now he was in possession of it.

It was an odd feeling. It wasn't like he could really do anything with it. Sure, it sealed the laceration up nicely enough but it wasn't something he could just do and have it be effective. It was something more reactive, meant to, most likely, keep him and other Paladins like him from haemorrhaging. It was a comforting thought, at the very least. The next one, he'd decided to get, was called (if he remembered right) "Turn Undead". Now, that was something he was keen to try out. But it would have to wait. All things for now, all selfish greedy personal things, had to be put on hold.

He'd been loosely in touch with a man who'd simply introduced himself as Claude, an intriguing bloke who seemed to be as sharp as a tack. Baxter's brows raised and he glanced down, reaching inside the pocket of his wool coat before he stuck his thumb under the strap of the golf bag he was carrying, fixing it properly over a shoulder. He pulled out his second phone and flipped it open to pull up the short notes he'd taken from their correspondence. Dissection was his favourite game. Claude, who he assumed was Chinese, spoke English and Mandarin. The English in a very eloquent way and the Mandarin he'd never heard, though even if he had, he'd never know whether it was being spoken with the same level of class. He was clearly a well-educated man. Though Baxter could be wrong; after all he, himself, could only boast up to a GED and yet he was able to mimic the Bourgeois like no other. It came in handy for those times he needed to parrot the owners of the shiny black and platinum cards he'd often pinched. It was amazing the things you could learn with the help of books and a bit of internet surfing.

Other than that, Claude was witty and likely thought quick on his feet. The trait Bax favoured most though was the man's cynicism. Cynicism was a true sign of honesty, of intelligence. Cynicism, and its other equivalents, was the hammer that shattered rose-coloured glasses to let all the other colours, both light and dark and all shades of gray, seep through. It was a sign of age and maturity, and because of that cynics were strong of character. Outwardly, anyways. Because bits of their exchange, in which there had been multiple instances of humility, also told Bax that the man really was modest. Or insecure. He was willing to put money on the latter if only because cynicism was often the tough shell that hid away vulnerable interiors; interiors that had become such a way after multiple letdowns. That was, usually, the birth of cynicism in a man. Or so he speculated. He'd been right, for the most part, about the Private Investigator and the CEO of Bitr, so only time would tell how close to the mark he'd hit with this encounter.

He was about a half a block from the club now and his face contorted briefly at the sight of the throngs of people outside, waiting in the cold in too-thin pants and too-short skirts. He could almost see the gooseflesh rising from where he was and he shook his head. He took one last pull off of his cigarette and looked around for the self-proclaimed Tall, Dark and Handsome in Green. He flicked the expired butt of the cigarette aside and turned his head to the side, letting the last of the smoke spilling out of the corner of his mouth when he spotted the green and squinted his eyes.

"Claude?"

[Claude Lambert (DELETED 8569)]

The English word green traces its origins from as far back as Middle English and from the Anglo-Saxon word grene, sharing the same Germanic root of the words "grass" and "grow". As a colour, it is most associated with springtime, growth, health, and nature. The largest contributor to the colour’s existence in plant life is chlorophyll; the chemical by which plants photosynthesize and convert sunlight into chemical energy. Many of the Earth’s creatures – save mammals – have also adapted to their green environments by taking on a green hue as camouflage. Unlike plants, animals are able to produce their own pigments, with most colours created as structural effects the refract the light into specific light waves. Several minerals like emeralds and agate have a green colouration too; this is usually the result of high chromium and vanadium contents. Perhaps because the colour is seen regularly in nature, Human cultures have developed contrary associations with it. The colour green has been likened with death, sickness, evil, love, fertility, wealth, safety, jealousy, envy, youth, inexperience, and even happiness with cultures across the globe.

In the Middles Ages and Renaissance periods, green clothing expressed that the wearer was a merchant. In fact, the green costume that the Mona Lisa was painted in shows explicitly that she was from the gentry, and not from the nobility. Today, the emphasis on clothing colour and its ties to social class are not so strict or even so remotely formal. A man could walk the streets in a pink satin shirt and tweed shorts and none too many would question whether he was working class or within the upper echelons of society – though they might just question his sanity. Similarly, no one might question the woodland colourations of the German’s attire for the evening, but they might just wonder why a man would wear such comfortable-looking winter clothing to a nightclub. Ironically, Claude was trying his best to be casual, which meant that he had to ditch his usual shirts, slacks, and suits for jeans and a warming net jumper. Since he had referred to himself as Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome sporting green, he attempted still to fit the bill with tonight’s ensemble even if he felt somewhat out of his comfort zones for being even this much informal in appearance.

Strictly speaking, Nightmode advertised itself as a haven for the unusual. It welcomed those who defined themselves as sitting upon the spectrum of weird, odd, and otherwise too intelligent, awkward, and eclectic to function in normal social establishments. The so-called cyberpunk nightclub come arcade for hackers and gamers, suggested that it catered to a particular type of individual. Perhaps Claude should have searched his wardrobe for something darker than the blackest night and so tight that one might be able to make out the proportions of his undercarriage, but, that much seemed inappropriate. He was supposed to be attending a meeting of a gravely serious nature. Some poor young man had gotten lost – or so an online advert had claimed – and Claude had expressed a willingness to lend assistance. The poster, a man who revealed himself as Baxter during their brief correspondence, gave the impression that he was concerned for the young man’s wellbeing and wished to do everything he could – including meeting up with random strangers – to locate him.

Now, with Claude being the cynical man that he was and being a touch too suspicious, he did immediately doubt the story. Something seemed odd about Baxter’s delivery. While Claude felt that he had fairly come to the conclusion that Baxter and Frederic were at least friends, he had not been given the impression that Baxter cared quite as much as one would expect. One might be so fraught with worry that they wouldn’t be able to think straight, yet Baxter’s responses in their emails and even on the public forum were very well composed and poised in a manner that suggested a very, very cool disposition. Granted, this could just be Baxter’s personality; not all people threw their hands in the air and declared outright dejection after all. People grieved differently, that much he knew because that had been forced down the German’s throat for years. Thus, he could look past it, accept that his suspicions weren’t enough to rid him of his intrigue. Besides that, the German had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever and could think of no decent reason to stand the man up even if this were some sort of scam.

Baxter had mentioned meeting with a Private Investigator and the CEO of Bitr prior to this meeting with Claude, but hadn’t found their assistance all that helpful or effective. This appeared rather unusual to Claude, who assumed it would be a typical task for someone like a P.I. who based their living around researching people, and would therefore know where a person might be hiding or misplaced. He wasn’t as surprised to learn that Lincoln King was not able to do much for Baxter, though did feel it was a shame that they’d had no success. This much suggested that the missing person, Frederic, was not a typical victim in a typical lost person’s case. Either Frederic was trying very hard not to be found by Baxter, or, perhaps Frederic couldn’t be found at all. Claude was not yet cold enough to wish that kind of fate on others, and although he doubted his ability to effect a positive change in the lives of both Baxter and Frederic, he wished to help regardless. Also, he rather bitterly hoped that there had been no undead intervention.

That would be a terrible scenario for several – and all well-meaning – reasons. Of course Claude hoped for Frederic’s safety as a priority, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t have some investment in the possibility that the young man hadn’t been killed or turned by a Vampire. This was due in part to the fact that he did not want that crazy lady on the forums to be right, and that part was actually born entirely out of his pettiness. Also because he knew what ticked inside the minds of people like hers. Any victory that the crazy lady found here would almost assuredly prove that she was correct in any situation from that point forward. Give a gambler the opportunity to win once in a hundred pulls of a slot machine and they will always harp back to that big win, dismissing their far superior losses. It didn’t matter that they had lost their house, their savings, and their loved ones in their habit because in December of 2009, they had once won $100, which had made it all worthwhile.

The other reason, one that ticked over selfishly inside the young Blood Thief’s head, was born out of pure self-satisfaction. In this case, he was the man supplying the casino for his patrons. He needed to keep his patrons coming, needed to keep them happy and safe inside a little bubble so that he could profit out of them. Because while Vampires fed on the blood of the living to find their strength and continue their existence, he had been taught that feeding on the blood of Vampires would secure a similar kind of strength in him while offering none of the drawbacks from being a pretty, reanimated corpse. After all, he did not burst into flames under the glare of the sun, he was not repelled by religious objects or found himself prevented from entering a private residence because no invitation had been offered. Best of all, Claude got to retain his reflection which was a remarkable relief to his vanity.

Nevertheless, becoming a Blood Thief was not easy. Few people survived the transition, so he supposed he was one of the luckier ones even if he was now cursed with this insistent urge to feed. It started at the instant of waking, before he had even peeled back his eyelids, and it would carry with him long after he had fallen asleep, even plaguing his dreams with pain. The sensation was similar to that of the full body ache experienced during a terrible influenza infection, and when it was really bad, it included the chills and sweats. Ironically, drinking the veritable poison that was a Vampire’s blood relieved these symptoms completely for a day, and the affect was as immediate as shooting heroine straight into the bloodstream. It was no wonder that others would regard the condition as more of an addiction than a survival mechanism. Blood Thieves didn’t need the blood, they craved it, and it kept their eyes always on the move seeking out that next fix.

As it was, while the German awaited Baxter’s arrival outside Nightmode, those amber discs were on the move. He saw several potentials, some of which had joined a tight circle near the entrance to the club. The group were predominantly male, made up of a single female; they closed around her like rose petals. Claude might not have thought much about their appearance at first if not for the breaths they exhaled between clouds of cigarette smoke. It would have been easy to miss, and in fact, had proven to command the German’s strict attention for several minutes before he noticed what was amiss. It was the very lack of any of breaths coming from the group that then stuck out like a sore appendage. In the late November chill, only the coldest bodies did not produce a mist as they exhaled, and try as they might to disguise the snow-white puffs with greyish smoke clouds, Claude had been one to catch the error and so others might too.

Still, none of this was of any importance. He did not hunt packs or herds, but chose instead the loners, the outsiders. Groups were generally harder to manipulate, and since the young Blood Thief did not wish to engage in violence, he treated each encounter like a romantic venture. Cutting one individual off from their collective was difficult enough as it was, but when the prize quested for was deemed far more invasive than a casual slip into one’s pants; it made the whole thing that much more of a challenge. Fortunately, the German was patient enough and arrogant enough to enjoy a challenge under the impression that he believed he would eventually win. Besides, not only was it invariably safer to have the Vampire’s permission during the exchange, but, he found it often tasted better, felt better.

Incidentally, it was when those amber eyes did spy a single female approaching the venue and disappearing inside, that the German was snagged out of his hungry thoughts and plunged into the ice-cold shock of being greeted by a lone male. Claude didn’t recognise the man who had approached with his name between his teeth, but he had to the judge from the blonde hair – which he just about detected under the hoodie – and the golf bag lugged way up on a shoulder, that this was the man who referred to himself as Baxter. Rejecting the look of surprise on his face that honestly made him look as meek as a lamb, he greeted the other male with a smile, nodded his head, and advanced toward him with an offered hand. Just because a man changes out of his business suit does not mean his professional habits have been shed, after all.

“Yes, good evening,” he said. “I believe that makes you Baxter? A pleasure.”

While it was clear that Claude spoke remarkably good English, there was a hint at least that his refined accent and mannerisms were not strictly natural. There was a whisper of something crisp and throaty that coated certain consonants like a candy shell. It wouldn’t be immediately apparent that Claude was a German national at this point, but perhaps easy enough to perceive that he was European. As for his companion, Claude wasn’t yet sure about Baxter’s descent. One word uttered in a gravelly tone was not enough to place a dialect. A fair complexion, piercing blue eyes, and naturally dark locks would be typical in many European regions, including the Americas and Australia too. Regardless, Claude held onto a thought that those characteristics, as well as being fairly common, were especially attractive in this form, but he would keep the thought close for now since they had urgent matters to discuss.

“Shall we go inside?” he offered, glancing toward the entrance as well as at the collection of bodies scattered about nearby. “We might catch our deaths if we linger here too long.”

[Kendal]

“I believe that makes you Baxter? A pleasure.”

Baxter's lips parted around a single syllable and the second it was ready to lead the rest out of his mouth, he reined it in and his lips sealed together, corners tugging upwards to offer a smile instead.

The man that approached was not, at all, Chinese as Baxter had assumed. In fact, he wasn't even remotely of Asian descent. Of course, he'd gone to inform the other man like he thought that maybe one or both of them were wrong and they were looking for a different Claude and a different Baxter. But that was absurd. It simply wasn't possible for another Baxter and Claude to meet. At least not at this very moment, outside of Nightmode in Harper Rock. It was a little detail but it caught him off-guard for a spell. He'd been so sure of himself. He decided to accept the short shock as a lesson in Hubris that would, soon and unfortunately, surely be forgotten.

Pale eyes dropped briefly to the gesture extended towards him. He took his gloved hand and set it against Claude's, gripping firmly to give it a single shake. He could tell that, despite not being Asian as he'd assumed, the other man was certainly one of polite demeanours and maybe even of class. A handshake was customary amongst strangers, sure, but there was something about the way the other hand looked, the smoothness of his fingers and palm and the way that curved against his that this was a many who had given and taken many-a handshakes in his years. And those years looked like they couldn't have surpassed maybe thirty five or so. And that made Baxter wonder about the Mandarin Claude had expressed knowledge of. At such a young age, to master such a complex tongue gave him the impression that it might have been done out of necessity or urgency, rather than out of recreation.

Though, he figured, he could be wrong and that perhaps, Claude was simply linguistically inclined. Even so, those who were fond of foreign languages, tended to veer towards languages similar to their own; for example, an Englishman might choose French or Spanish due to their similar roots in Old Latin. That may have been because there was a sense of familiarity and ease in learning languages with common backgrounds. Now, that was not to say there weren't people that lived on the fringe and wished to tackle more complex dialects. Generally speaking, however, that was a small portion of the population. Maybe Claude was one of those people but Baxter would wager otherwise.

"Likewise." he released the man's hand and slid his own into the pocket of his coat, his eyes briefly flicking over Claude's shoulder to the entrance to the club before back again to the foreign face. Anyone with eyes could see that the man was handsome. Almost unnaturally so. Claude seemed to belong on the cover of magazines and in between their pages on spreads for Givenchy or Hermes. He had a strong jawline and cheeks that looked like they were carved out, not enough to be sunken in but enough to give him an edge of masculinity that paired well with the prominent cupid's bow and the deep-set, benignly doe-like eyes that were somewhat classically effeminate in nature. Yes, anyone with eyes could see that Claude was an attractive man, and in studying his face for those few seconds, Baxter would have to agree. All his features seemed to be proportionate and situated in the right place, and the balance of masculinity and femininity was even.

He judged him the way he did a painting, observing the brushstrokes and careful details the painter's hand had worked into the folds of colour as he had brushed them across the canvas. Or perhaps a sculpture, which he could stare at for hours to pick out the way the sculptor had breathed life into stone. He could look at either and nod, confirming that there had been time and effort put into the piece. Once a piece of art had been created, it was either exquisite or not, and that all depended on the viewers' tastes and preferences. Inclinations were very much subjective. But no one could deny hard work and detail when they looked at said piece up close.

"Lead the way." he nodded his head towards Nightmode before following the man. His body protested the movement towards the club just about as much as his mind did. He remained lax about it but he wasn't looking forward to the crowd that he was sure would engulf him once he stepped inside. It looked like a fairly populated venue. Surely, there would be music inside, the kind that gave him headaches and he was sure there would be smells too, maybe a lot of cologne and perfume and liquor. His nostrils flared briefly at the speculation as if trying to catch a whiff to prepare himself before walking into a full-on olfactory assault.

[Claude Lambert (DELETED 8569)]

Whether by divinity, evolution or… any other theory which takes your fancy, it is well understood that man is a being of inferences, assumptions, and expectations. It is man’s ability to critically analyse his surroundings, assume and infer truths from learned beliefs, and risk encounters based off of his expectations that has brought him to the throne of the world. To be skilled in critical thinking is to be able to take one’s thinking apart systematically; to analyse each part, assess it for quality, and then improve it. The first step in this process is in understanding the parts of thinking, the elements of reasoning. To take command of our thinking, we need to clearly formulate both our purpose and the question at hand. We need to use information in our thinking that is both relevant and accurate to the question we are dealing with. We need to make logical inferences based on sound assumptions. We need to understand our own point of view and fully consider the relevant points of view of others. We need to use concepts justifiably and follow-up the implications of decisions we are considering.

Humans naturally and regularly use beliefs as assumptions and likewise make inferences based on those assumptions. We must do so to make sense of where we are, what we are about, and what is happening. Assumptions and inferences permeate our lives precisely because we cannot act without them. We make judgments, form interpretations, and come to conclusions based on the beliefs we have formed. In essence, we create self-fulfilling prophecies. People automatically make inferences to gain a basis for understanding and action. These inferences are often made so quickly and so automatically that we do not – without training – notice them as inferences. We see dark clouds and infer rain. We hear the door slam and infer that someone has arrived. We see a frowning face and infer that the person is upset. We see someone approaching with a golf bag and infer they enjoy a round or two – or are potentially smuggling some taboo item. When we read, we interpret what the various sentences and paragraphs mean. We listen to what people say and make a series of inferences as to what they mean too.

As we write, we make inferences as to what readers will make of our confessions. We make inferences as to the clarity of what we are saying, what requires further explanation, what has to be exemplified or illustrated, and what does not. Many of our inferences are justified and reasonable, but some are not. This is especially true in online communications. Joseph B. Walther, a professor of communications studies at Nanyang Technological University in Singapore, has studied online community engagement for decades and has become something of an expert on the matter. He states that the most immediate benefit of going online for support is the ease with which we can find a critical mass of people with a shared experience. Families and friends can be sympathetic, but they can’t always truly understand what we’re going through unless they’ve had the same problem themselves. Online, you not only find people with similar experiences, but because they’re not in your immediate social network, several aspects of stigma go away. Beyond alleviating the stigma of disclosure, online support eliminates the stigma of dependency because online engagements are more focused on mutual support than caregiver and dependent roles.

Walther accepts that embellishment and straight-up falsifications are equally possible encounters in the online world too. These forms of communications create opportunities for us to get the kind of attention we want, but lies of omission can be used to evade the attention we need. This doesn’t take away from the process of painstakingly writing, erasing, and re-writing our experiences a dozen times in order to better express ourselves. He sees the preoccupied concern with people lying in online communications not as an issue of intentional deceit, but merely a different kind of self-presentation. In 1996, Walther developed the concept of the hyper-personal model of communication in computer-mediated spaces. He observed that with more time for message construction and less stress of on-going interaction, users may take the opportunity for objective self-awareness, reflection, selection, and transmission of preferable cues. Unencumbered by nervous gestures or the need to respond at the pace of speech, communications online become optimised to the mode of how we want to be heard.

This does not necessarily make them dishonest.

When we are released from insecurity and fear, we aren’t filtering our “real” selves, we are instead removing the visible and physical filters that have obscured our deepest realities. The online world presented a means for Claude to channel his new “real” self – whoever that happened to be. After all, Claude had not been soul-searching these last few years but was adamantly spirit searching. If he could not locate a dashing brandy, a hearty rum, a sizzling gin, or spicy vermouth, then he would settle for whatever they had on tap. The point had been to lose himself entirely, to forget his connections with his past so that he might very well escape that aching loneliness and desperation which haunted him since Lydia’s death. But that had been six years ago, before Fate had elected to highlight his foolishness and cowardice. A Blood Thief’s increased metabolic rate had certainly made the process of becoming intoxicated a chore. Since the body cannot store the ethanol, it immediately goes into the process of breaking it down and expelling the by-products; carbon dioxide and water. Since metabolizing alcohol is a lengthy, complex process, the body burns calories at a greater rate than normal. In a Blood Thief, this basically equates to breaking down the alcohol so quickly that he barely felt the high before he felt the hangover.

So what does a drunk do with himself when he cannot so easily drink away his problems? In Claude’s case, he found that he had an interest in helping others with their own problems. Perhaps it was better for the community overall that he was investing his time and energy into giving advice or volunteering whatever service he could muster, rather than basically bankrolling Harper Rock’s bars and nightclubs. Though, that wasn’t to say that the German did not haunt these places even so. He had invited the mysterious Baxter to Nightmode after all, leading him past the heavy steel doors and into a den of pitch black décor and potentially darker hearts. Indeed, the young Blood Thief was vastly aware of their mortality and how such a thing was considered a disadvantage these nights. Yet, he wasn’t put off by their immortal company and suspected that Baxter wouldn’t have agreed to meet Claude there if he was bothered by it. The subject of Vampires living amongst them was something that was alluded to rather than outright accepted by the pair – likely because neither one of them wanted to be the first to volunteer that they whole-heartedly believed that the media was selling truths. They had their pride to consider after all.

The self-elected Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome sporting green had found a quiet spot for them in the lounge area. They had negotiated clusters of perspiring bodies on the dance floor to reach the elevated platform at the very back of the bar, though one could easily mistake said dance floor for a factory floor. What was not fashioned out of wrought iron was fashioned from grim-appearing cement. There were exposed beams and piping on the ceiling like interlaced veins; a similarity only improved upon by the sounds of fluid pulsing through them. The lighting was sparse, reserving a sense of intimacy or foreboding given one’s relative tastes. And every piece of furniture seemed to be made from metal and black PVC. The only touch of colour the German could discern was the luminous lime detailing around the bar, the arcade games, and within the lounge area itself. The circular table which became a focal point of the surrounding armchairs, cast a ghoulish green light into the darkness. Yet, Claude fondly spied a place for himself and Baxter there and immediately offered the other male a seat.

“I hope this setting is ok for you,” he said after he had taken a seat himself.

His back was to the far wall, which allowed him an unparalleled view of the club whilst retaining an agreeable view of his company. His back remained straight, his shoulders pushed back incidentally accentuating a broad chest – a symbol of schooled posture. He also sat with his legs crossed at the ankle, feet beneath him, and hands settled in his lap as a capsized gesture of prayer. It was a position he found himself in whenever he was making the effort to be comfortable with others. As charming, friendly, and encouraging as Claude could be, he was not a natural at relaxing. He found comfort in board rooms and lecture halls, so he couldn’t help but bring a touch of that rigidness with him wherever he went.

“They do a surprisingly good job at stifling the noise in this very corner, so we should be able to talk without too much intrusion,” he added.

It was important, after all, that they were able to listen and speak with confidence. Perhaps Claude should have offered to meet at a café instead of a nightclub, but something about it made his nose wrinkle. Not merely because he wasn’t a fan of hot beverages, but because of what a café represented. It was a place where average people meet, where friends and relatives reunite. There were positive connotations, carefree and casual associations, that did not fit the German’s presumed intentions for the evening. It also felt somewhat distasteful to meet in such a cheery environment given the current situation. He would hate to bring Baxter to a place that reminded him of his missing friend. Had Baxter any other ideas about where he would have preferred to meet, then he hadn’t expressed such opinions to Claude. All in all, Claude was confident he’d made a fairly decent venue choice and while it might have been courteous to offer the man a drink before they got down to business, he also suspected that it was more appropriate to just dive right in.

“I see you’re a man of your word,” he offered with a smooth smile and nodded his head toward the golf bag. “And while I would love to know just why you are carrying it with you, I am reminded to be a man of my own word.” He paused, settling his vision on the other man. There was a sense of fondness, meekness glittering in his golden eyes. “I said I would provide you with my undivided attention tonight. I’m not a Private Investigator or a fabulously successful socialist, but I was an astute businessman in my former life. I hope that I can offer at least a third-party perspective, but it all depends on what happened to Frederic as to how we might go about finding him. Would you be able to give me more of an insight into your lives before he became missing?”

[Kendal]

The walls seemed to vibrate with the booming bass that dominated the speakers and rained down on the writhing masses. There were only catch hints of motion. A flicker of a shoulder here or the twinkle of a jewelled navel there, highlighted by the red and green lights that grazed over bare skin. The collective bodies moved together, in sync but not. Each dark silhouette had its own rhythm but somehow, all together, they merged and became one big form. Baxter was reminded of snakes in a pit from the sight from his view from the stairs. He followed Claude up the steps to the more secluded and, thankfully, quieter area. He set his bag down first, next to him and against the nearest wall, close enough for him to reach out and sink his hand inside if he needed to do so. The bag rarely left his sights. He then slid into the seat across from Tall, Dark and Handsome Sporting Green.

Baxter rolled his shoulders and leaned back , turning a little on his chair as he did so so that his hip nudged against the back of his seat and he could rest his elbow on the top of the back of the arm chair, arm draped and hand hanging loosely like a broken pendulum. From this position, he could sling a leg over the arm of his seat if he wanted to. But he didn't, not yet. His body sank in like he no longer had bones, like he was relaxed. And though there was a distinct smell in the air that may have influenced that, likely lifting up from the restrooms below in thick clouds, his muscles and the joints remained rigid. His posture told of a tale that his viscera could not. Thankfully, all that was visible was the lines of his limber posture, with every other telltale detail hidden under layers of worn, dark fabric.

It was, maybe, a stark contrast to how Claude sat, Baxter noted. His gaze lingered on the others form to study it, to see if there were any similarities between himself and the other man. He watched the way Claude sat with his hands folded and he glanced down, ineffectively thanks to the table dividing them, to see if he could see how he'd chosen to pose his legs. Baxter's chin tipped up a little though his gaze remained where it was, causing his eyes to become hooded under dark lashes. It struck him as odd that a businessman would perch in such a manner but he couldn't quite place why it was odd. Maybe he'd been expecting Claude to sit back with his ankle over a knee, twirling a Cuban cigar between his fingers and a stubby glass of brandy in the other. The thought made him grin a little before he remembered himself and where he was. His expression grew sombre and he thought back to what the male had said before he lost him in his own head.

"I hope this setting is ok for you."

The concern hit him belatedly and his dark brows rose. Baxter looked around and then back at the dance floor he'd been scrutinizing unfairly earlier. There wasn't much he could complain about. They were far enough away from the patrons which meant he couldn't distinctly pick up on any form of scent that wafted up from the bodies, and as Claude had mentioned, any sounds from the music that could have distracted him was muffled away in their little corner. There wasn't much he couldn't complain about at all. Kendal Baxter looked back at Claude and offered the man a small smile. "It's perfectly fine." he reassured him and then his brows rose and he peered over his own shoulder at the bag, letting out a chuff of a laugh. He shook his head and returned his pale gaze to the gentleman across the table from him. "You know what they say, curiosity kills the cat." He grinned faintly.

He was drawn to the man's amber eyes and there was a look there that Baxter couldn't quite place. His brow furrowed briefly before smoothing out and he blinked, expression faltering for a split second. It was a look he'd encountered before from strangers and had felt the same overwhelming bout of confusion. He couldn't read it. No one that knew him had ever bestowed such a look on him so he couldn't speak from experience. He offered his company a small smile in return as was his default reaction. A smile was easy. It was usually welcomed. It was usually right, depending on what sort of a reflection his eyes cast.

"I met Fred a few years ago." he ran a leathered hand through his hair, inadvertently pulling out a few snowy strands. "He, uh, well." There was a pause that he didn't want to make. His hand dropped away from he crown of his head. Pauses gave people time to think in between his words. There surely was no need for exact details, right? He glanced at Claude and appraised him for the second time, differently this time around though; this time he was looking to dig beneath the surface. Exactly how much could he tell the other man? From where he was, Claude didn't look like a businessman but maybe that could be attributed to the fact that he wasn't in a suit and nor did his attire seem the sort of crispness Baxter expected from an entrepreneur. His sweater looked too comfortable, too loose, too warm. Capitalists, as far as he'd observed, preferred the exact opposite sort of apparel. He smiled again, in approval this time. His company seemed harmless in comparison. "He was looking to score some pot." It wasn't the whole truth but there were dirty details that no one else needed to know. "And I happened to be selling. One thing led to the other and he became a constant in my life. He doesn't have any family in Toronto so maybe he was looking for me to fill some sort of a role."

"Daddy."

Baxter cleared his throat and looked around for a cocktail waitress if there were any. "Do you drink, Claude?" he asked as his stare scanned over the level they were on before eventually landing back on the brunette as he twisted to face him fully, no longer as languid as he had been. He leaned forward, knees parting, with his elbows resting on tem as his spine bent and his shoulders hunched oncer, fingers clasping together loosely. "I dealt to him, often. But he was a friend." Maybe more than that. He knew it was more than that. How many times had he ended up tangled with the younger male with the other expressing wanting more? How many times had he played dumb? He licked his bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth. "We were close." He added, figuring that alone would suffice and would squash the small well of guilt he was starting to feel. Finally, he spotted a woman with a tray and he lifted his fingers to wave her over to the table.