3rd of Ophus, 2718
Laboratory Beta | Evening
The Cadet was unimpressed with his presence and the older galdor hid his amusement behind an equally disinterested expression even as he read the surface thoughts and emotions of the human across from him. He'd dampened his field and put on a cheap suit, assumed another name and ordered a Flashfight as if he had every right to do so, as if he was ignorant of all the connotations that the man before him chose to so carefully point out to him in syllabic detail.
"I didn't realize I was intruding." He offered, almost smugly, though the effort it took to play the kind of galdor he was expected to be was far more uncomfortable than the Magister in disguise made it seem. Glancing away from the dark amber bottle to study the face before him, he ventured further, "There is a very unpopular academic theory that all sentient species on Vita descended from a single ancestor—humanity and galdorkind, long ago, exactly the same. If ever a galdor was publicly flogged in counter-theories and long-winded treatises, it's that man."
Ceres smirked then, entertaining the cadet's somewhat opinionated observations without disagreement. The point of the Brass Uncle was, apparently, not only to not hear your neighbors but also barely hear yourself think. He leaned a bit, the broad-shouldered galdor resting his palms on the worn tabletop, settling into his seat as if he finally intended to stay there,
"Catch the notice of the wrong Seventen, and they can read more than your lips. As for your lead—yes, everything still seems to be unraveling in that direction." The older man's eyes narrowed with the admission, his facial expression beneath his well-trimmed beard one of distaste as if his words had actually been sour against his tongue. He thought back to the morning after Clock's Eve, to the faces around the table, to the kinds of men who mad plans without a care in the world for any lives involved within them.
Fingers curled against the wood and he blinked back from the brief memory with what could only be described as a very convincing mockery of a scoff, "The flick of a hand? Well. Organic matter cannot be moved in such a way, no, but I've heard of some very grand magical experiments involving inorganic matter and teleportation recently. Promising. Or horrible. Both, really—"
Johannes paused and leaned back in perfect anticipation of the waitress bringing his own bottle of Flashfight, the coordination of his movements so graceful it was as though he'd had eyes in the back of his head because the young woman setting his drink down was just as human and non-magical as Adam. Ceres thanked her, uncapping the beer with the press of his palm and a twist, raising it halfway between himself and the other man in brief tribute before speaking again,
"What—that?"
Slowly, the older galdor's clueless, deceptively innocent expression became one of mischief as if he was suddenly that one troublesome uncle who contentedly snuck candy to his nieces and nephews when no one was looking. Rakishly hiding his annoyance at the human's discomfort and doubts, he took a swig of his beer before setting it down on the table with an exhale through his teeth. He understood and had long-endured Serro's intolerance of galdorkind within the Resistance's end game plans. It made sense—why have those who you long to overthrow present within your ranks? What if those galdori suddenly had doubts? What if those galdori miscast during an important operation? What if they had always simply been untrue? There were so many what ifs in an organization that was already so volatile and desperate to survive that his very existence within their ranks was a huge, undeniable risk.
He'd proven himself more than once in ways that obviously Adam had yet to experience, considering this was their first meeting, and the sensation of the human's curious surface thoughts filtering through his dampened field, through his heightened and powerful Perceptive awareness that he wore like a mantle or his very own Magister's robes, did not offend him so much as endear him.
Castor Devlin sighed, sitting up in his seat and squaring his shoulders, adjusting to place his palms flat on the tabletop as if making a very obvious point. He was, in fact, more than just a mere Magister, more than just a well-studied master of his chosen Conversation. He was, as rumored on campus, in very real possession of his own True Name.
As if his monic presence had been a flower in evening, tightly closed, Ceres allowed his field to unfold, the sensation not unlike petals opening if said petals had carried the magical weight of someone of his caliber instead of simply the colors of spring. He arched a dark eyebrow and kept his hands on the tabletop, meeting Adam's gaze evenly. He spoke no Monite, moved not a finger, but his field shifted in a way that could be described as reminiscent of the rushing of the tide, invisible, sentient particles bending not to his spoken will but to his very thought.
His eyes fluttered for but a moment, the Magister's attention shifting toward the phonograph. The song skipped as if someone had jarred the table it rest on, a scratching sound audible for a heartbeat or two before there was suddenly silence.
He blinked.
A few people in the room grumbled. Someone audibly tsked.
The waitress that had served them both moved quickly to investigate, apologizing softly even as Adam would feel the man across from him begin to gather up his field and dampen it again, drawing it close to himself as if it was another layer of clothing, Castor's expression so neutral and deadpan that it wasn't even conceit.
"Oh, godsdamnit. The needle's broken." Hissed the waitress under her breath, her voice strangely amplified in their little corner of the Brass Uncle. Raising her voice to an obviously meant to be audible level, she added, "Be right back, folks. I've got another needle 'round here somewhere."
A few more sounds of discontent and then the buzz of conversation picked right back up again as if the music had never stopped.
The dark-haired galdor simply reached for his Flashfight, this time pausing to clink the rim of his dark amber bottle against Adam's, adding a wink before he took another drink, "Now that we've properly investigated my credentials, Inspector, can we move onto more important conversation? I'm actually a very busy man, since we're now being honest."