Elijah Blanc

"An art gallery? I mean if that's what you guys have for me…"

Ivory fingers push softly over ruby buttons, sliding them into their respective holes of his button up. Shoulders shrugging back as his neck stretches, head arching back as wipsy eyes slide shut.

"It's different, that's good"

Elijah has been out of practice for a bit now. He hasn't reported a single story in what?- four months now, but not of his own accord. The reporter is well known in the city, he's on the TV after all, so it isn't irregular that people want to meet him, take him out to dinner, try and get him a story. He's used to being tugged around from person to person, each wanting something from him; recognition, fifteen minutes of fame, to push some political agenda. He's never minded it.

His friends call him a quote on quote ' shit magnet '. Most people don't favour a parasitic relationship, rather they'd want to meet half way in something more mutualistic. Elijah doesn't see it this way though, even if he pays all the bills, does all the work, shows all the affection- in his mind it's symbiotic. It's because he genuinely likes doing it, he feels strong, needed, wanted. The man purposely avoids those who are stable footed, he needs someone to rely on him. After all, if he doesn't have someone to take care of, what would he do? Focus on himself? Why build upon perfection.

Perfect, that's what he considers himself. Perfect job, perfect house, perfect face, perfect life! It's all his, handed to him on a silver platter. Perfect day after perfect night however gets repetitive- and it's when he breaks his perfect cycle that life decides to slap him with the platter. It happens every time he tries something different, something to spice up his life. He ruins it. Don't mess with perfection.

He's been at the top of his game the past couple years. The media loves him, he's attractive, he has a silver tongue- and he always got the best stories. When Elijah started getting letters, he assumed it was just life once again handing him that beautiful, shimmering platter. He was wrong.

Letters of adoration were normal, he'd receive up to fifty a day sometimes. He should've known something was up when he started getting coordinates, vague messages, encryptions. It excited Elijah however, and much to his delight these letters often landed him on the scene of a great story. A robbery, a lost child found, an escaped zoo animal. It started out relatively normal, but when he started finding bodies of people nobody knew, of cases that didn't even exist- Elijah found out this was more than just an admirer. He turned the letters over, all of them. There was a briefing on it in the news, and while they never mentioned Elijah's name the man wasn't surprised to receive a death threat a few days later.

Ungrateful. That's what they called him. An ungrateful brat.

Unsurprisingly, he was put on paid suspension until things cooled down. It left the man paranoid, pissed off, he tried coming into work several times but they wouldn't even let him in the building. He knew they blamed him for those people's demise. He didn't ask for it, but still Elijah was handed a responsibility even he couldn't handle. The letters continued, he stopped opening them.

Much to his delight, the letters have stopped this month and the police are convinced the murders are in fact random- not the doing of one person. And just like that, the platter is handed back- and Elijah doesn't hesitate to eat this time.

"Mr.Blanc? We're here," A cold hand touches his shoulder and he's awake, blinking erratically. He'd fallen asleep in the back of the van on the way to the gallery. With a sheepish smile he's pushing off his coworkers hand, sighing as they instead grab a large lens. "Sleep later old man, you've got art to judge," he hears them snicker, the smile fades. He doesn't actually have to judge, does he? His chest feels tight as his shoes click against the sidewalk, the wind touseling silvery locks. It's embarrassing how fast someone from his crew comes and fixes it for the man.

I can fix my own damn hair. "Thank you, Sheryl" he breathes through a tight smile.

One pointed shoe moves Infront of the other until the clacks turn into echos as he enters the large exhibition. He doesn't get to wander long before his crew is enclosing him and a mic is being pushed into his slender fingers.

"We're rolling and...speed," his eyes follow a count of fingers before his eyes light up and his smile comes to life. "Good morning New Orleans! I'm here today at the Jackson Square for the grand opening of Rising Talents art exhibition...-" it's clear Elijah loves his job from the pure joy that bubbles through his preppy voice, the man grinning ear to ear as his long legs stride throughout the exhibit. There isn't anything specific that draws him to Maisi's exhibit. It's just luck that he stops in front of her work and for a moment he simply marvels. He doesn't even see any of her other works as he stops dead in his tracks, cloudy gaze set upon a single painting. "As you can see Rising Talents has a fine share of artists here to meet anyone's fancy."

His posture straightens as the lens zooms in on the saturated canvas. For a moment his mind mulls over his outfit- is it too bright? It's different from his usual attire. An artistic little button up., tight white slacks that took him twenty minutes to get over his ass, glossy pointed shoes. Is his hair nice? Did they turn up the lens saturation so his alabaster skin isn't so washed out? The story, Elijah, the story. He adjusts his shirt and he's turning to take a closer look. It doesn't take him long to find a name.

"This piece here is made by the lovely...Maisi Dennis," usually he doesn't go off script and start up an interview with someone without preparation yet he turns to Maisi without missing a beat. His gaze lids heavily over her, squinting faintly as his cheeks bunch softly in a welcoming smile. "Which must be you, my dear," he pauses, head tilting curiously as a doting little grin splits his lips. "A beautiful piece from a beautiful girl- tell me, Maisi, how long did this painting take?,"

With a subtle lean, the microphone is now Infront of Maisi.

He finds Maisi's appearance intriguing. She has a certain roundness to her features that makes her look softer, something Elijah completely lacks with his sharp points and angles. Her lips stand out the most to him, which his eyes gravitate to subtly. What...color is your hair? Brown? Blond? The man tilts his head further, trying to let the light catch Maisi more. He must look weird because he hears one of his crew members click their pen a few times, sending him straightening his posture once again.

"A whole week, hm? Well...I don't think I'm the only one who could admire it for even longer," Elijah coos thoughtfully before he's pulling the mic back to grin into the camera. "If you'd like to see more works like this one here, come stop down by Bellenoir--" he pauses, adjusting his stance a little as his fingers adjust his collar. "And get in touch with your artistic side. I'm Elijah Blanc. Eyewitness News," his fingers adjust, two raising to his lips as he playfully blows a kiss to the camera before the lens is being lowered, the crew muttering.

"We're editing that out, Blanc," he pouts.

They never let me blow kisses. He understands it's unprofessional, he just doesn't care. With a dramatic sigh he hands the mic to Sheryl, his smile tight as he does. "Alright guys, we've got thirty minutes before we need to head back," Elijah hums as his arm twists, glimpsing at his watch. Once he's dismissed his crew and they meander along their way, does Elijah finally turn back to Maisi. Instead of striking up a conversation however the man is pulling out his wallet, fingers prodding through bills.

"How much?"

The man's cloudy gaze lifts to meet hers again, squinting gently. "Do...you take cash or check?," His brows raise softly and while most would think of that as a joke, he's dead serious. Elijah only has six hundred in cash on him right now, and assuming the art is worth far more than that he's already grabbing his checkbook before his hands are patting at his pockets. Where? Where did you go he does a full turn around, as if stepping in a circle will make his pen magically appear. "Do you have a pen?," He sighs, defeated, a meek smile gracing his lips.

Elijah never leaves the house without a pen- and it's not that he's lost it, no, the pen is in his back pocket. Anyone could tell because there's a small splotch of blue ink on his very white pants. Once Elijah finds this he will most definitely have a fit, out of the public eye, but a fit nonetheless. Thankfully, Elijah cannot see his own ass and the pen will remain a mystery until later.

"I've never seen art of pigeons," he continues to ramble, eyes resting back on the painting. "Did you know that pigeons actually were one of the first domesticated birds! And that they saved many lives in world war one," the man sounds delighted, weirdly passionate about these birds that most would consider dirty. "They mate for life too...beautiful," his gaze rests back on Maisi finally, looking her up and down gently.

"I like the shirt, red suits you," You'd look better in white. His eyes wander up and then down once again. What most would see as blatant flirting is just Elijah having a lack of boundaries and incidental flattery. He just likes to talk, alot, about everything.

Where did you go? He's patting again for that damn pen, brows scrunching in frustration.

"You are very defensive," Elijah muses as the man snips at him not once, but twice. His feet drag a little as Rusty drags him, murmuring a few hushed things in defiance. "Why do you feel the need to manhandle me? Do you do this to everyone you meet? Do you have control issues or something? You can just as--" the blond is interrupted as he's cornered. For a moment, his body language mirrors Rus's, arms cross, back straight, head up. That is until he realizes this and clasps his hands behind him instead, tilting his down but his eyes up, looking up at Rus through his lashes.

He lets him speak, keeping his face relatively lax, looking almost disinterested with the man's words. His eyes follow his flying hands and his own reach to stop Rus, smoothing his hands back down to his sides. "Do you feel threatened by me?," He just asks bluntly. "I am sorry if I come off as intimidating, or...whatever it is you dislike that I am doing here," Elijah exhales deeply as his shoulders roll, head tilting aside as he fixes the cuffs of his shirt.

Elijah squints softly after a moment, a faint smile tugging his lips in understanding. "I see," he breathes now as he nods. "Rusty, I am a very rich, as you can tell," Elijah starts as he tilts his head up now to get a better look at Ruston. "I know that...someone like you probably isn't familiar with things like altruism, or philanthropy," his hands move a little as he speaks, as if it helps get his point further across. "Truthfully, I have more money than I know what to do with, and alone my existence doesn't really have much effect on what goes on in this world," he pauses, eyes shifting to the children.

"Money makes the world go 'round, so I like to give to see it turn a little more," he exhales, licking over his dry lips with a small frown. "Altruism is... difficult. Sometimes helping does more harm," he's about to go on a rant. "For example, if I were to go to Africa and give out free food, I am actually hurting them, because now nobody wants to buy the food of the local father, who relies on the people I fed for free, to buy his food," he explains. "Or...say I pay for a boy to go to college, and he never learns the importance of working to accomplish his goals and ends up on his mother's sofa his whole life," he chuckles. He's getting off track, he knows that.

"Um-- what I'm getting at here, Rus is that I just want to help," he exhales deeply. "Kids are our future, and me helping you and your kids get some food isn't going to tip the balance of the world," Elijah smiles a bit sadly then. "Plus it's...nice actually being involved for once, seeing where my money goes," he slowly extends a hand then. "I have a kid of my own, trust me when I say he's already enough of a handful for me, I couldn't possibly manage your kids as well," his hand grabs Ruston's, gripping it softly as his fingers tap. "You have my word that I won't do anything bad," he squints, pulling the man down by his hand. "Now stop fuckin' cussin', your foul mouth is going to brush off onto those kids, teach them some actual vocabulary," he shakes his hand then, as if sealing a deal before he pats the mans hip and pulls away.

Elijah slithers out from the corner with ease, smiling wide at the kids as he turns, striding over to the pasta with a grin. "My my what have you guys found!?," he giggles as he grabs some off the shelves. "Pasta is delicious, y'know, it's my favorite food, you guys should get lots of it," he nods with a warm hum.