People had come to interview Ronan about Elysium before, of course. He didn't much mind media attention- better the eyes of the public were focused on him than his sister. Or his brother, god forbid. But he had seen them in his home, for the most part. Invited one or two to join him for dinner. This was the first interview he would actually be having inside of the establishment itself.
That was mostly because Vanguard had sent a college kid to interview him. It was an odd choice, to be sure. Presumably some sort of power play, maybe trying to remind him that he was small-time, only worthy of being interviewed by a literal minor. Or maybe they just wanted to make sure their reporter wouldn't be plied with alcohol and whatever else Elysium had in store. Not that Ronan would ever do such a thing. He was more than capable of charming a reporter without the aid of soporifics.
There the kid came, right on schedule. He was dressed appropriately, or at least as appropriately as someone on the budget of a college student could dress. Not that Ronan had ever actually experienced that sort of impoverishment, of course. It was undoubtedly for the best that Eidolon Martins had worn something halfway formal. If the young man had shown up wearing a hoodie, he would have almost certainly been turned away at the door, press pass or no.
Ronan gave the reporter a firm, solid handshake. Not too tight- that sort of juvenile 'flexing' was beneath him. If his own attire, including a custom-tailored suit, and the general decor of his lounge, didn't signal his superiority, there was little hope that a simple handshake would. It was clear, though, that Martins understood the situation. That much had been obvious from the moment Ronan had laid eyes on him, across the room. His eyes were a little too wide, and his body language betrayed uncertainty.
Of course, some of that might have been the leg, as well. It was well-hidden under his clothes, but Cernunnos had eyes keener than most. He could detect the traces of a slight limp, that not even cutting-edge Assurance-grade prosthetics could erase entirely. That, if nothing else, was indication that he wasn't some sort of child assassin, sent under the cover of a mundane interview. Not that such a thing was likely, but there was at least one gun-toting little girl running around the Duskburg district these days. One could never be too careful.
In contrast to the slightly stiff, almost artificial smile that Eidolon gave, Ronan's own was easy and calm. He was practiced in the art of appearing at ease. It helped that, in this moment, he was. And in turn, he hoped his own relaxed demeanor would set the young reporter at ease as well. One could never have too many friends in the press, and Ronan had plenty of influence in the media world, even reaching as far as Millennium City. Or Chicago, where the kid was actually attending college. According to the press clippings Ronan had checked after learning the name of his interviewer, he'd been given a full-ride scholarship from Assurance to go along with the leg. Patronage from the wealthy was easy to get used to, and hard to go without.
With a different reporter, Ronan might have said something to the effect of Please, call me Ronan. It established a rapport immediately. But in this case, he didn't want to breed too much familiarity in the boy. His incident with Arno Flint and an assassin in Eisner Park wasn't the only thing that had come up, in a cursory search of the young man's name. He'd also broadcast an 'irreverent' 'anti-establishment' podcast called Meta Talk. So, no. Ronan wasn't going to let him get too familiar just yet.
"Good to meet you, Mr. Martins. It is my pleasure. Please, begin at your leisure."
Eidolon had placed the recording device on the table between them. Elysium was typically quieter than the typical New York nightclub, because it wasn't really one at all. It was a lounge. An establishment with class. No raised voices, certainly no violence. The audio would be fine, even for them not having met in Ronan's office. Most evenings, there was music, and tonight was no exception- but the talent had yet to arrive. It wasn't especially late in the evening, by Ronan's design. Nobody wanted Eidolon Martins, Boy Reporter out past his bedtime.
Also on the table were two drinks. Ronan himself had a scotch, but one of his underlings who'd been tasked with watching multiple full episodes of the indubitably insipid 'Meta Talk' show had reported that Martins favored a Raspberry Lime Rickey. Non-alcoholic, naturally. Elysium was an establishment of some repute. Serving liquor to minors was out of the question. At least, on this floor.
There was no need to point it out. Martins would notice as soon as he took a sip, and the glass had been positioned to clearly indicate that it was meant for him. Whether he acknowledged that small touch didn't much matter. It was all a part of the overall effort. Projecting the image that it was effortless for people like Ronan, to handle interviews, to erect establishments like Elysium in a matter of months, even to procure the preferred beverage of the interviewer on short notice. Never mind the poor bastard who'd had to suffer through hours of podcast to help sell that image. His name would never be in the history books. And the Smythe family paid him generously. So, who cared?
Certainly, Cernunnos did not.