Idealist

Participants:

cardinal_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Idealist
Synopsis A corporeal Cardinal recognizes Deckard in a bar, calls him over, and wants to know if he's heard the latest news. Deckard mostly wants to know who the hell he is and why he cares.
Date March 19, 2009

Shooters Bar and Bistro


There's the big auction at the bar and bistro that night, but that's hours away; the sun's still up, even, which means that there's not that many people lingering about. Oh, there's a few, chowing down on sandwiches or drinking an early beer after a hard morning's work, but it's nothing compared to the crowd that usually stocks the pub and hits the pool table.

It's at one of the outdoor tables, near to the wall, that Cardinal's seated; the chair tilted back into the shadows, though sunglasses still perch on his face, booted feet kicked up onto the table's edge and a bottle of beer in hand. He takes a sip of it, considering the view across the street in silent contemplation.

Much as the darkness seems to have no influence over Deckard's affinity for sunglasses, the warmth of afternoon sunshine has no influence over his affinity for alcohol. Sporting the aforementioned glasses in place of the leather eye patch that was just beginning to become a familiar fixture against his rough countenance, he's a rickety smudge of black and grey that crosses the window a few seconds before he levers open the door.

From there, it's straight to the bar, with no time wasted to strip off the shabby hang of his overcoat before he drops himself down onto a stool and sets to taking care of it there. He doesn't look that great. Pale, gaunt. Maybe a little hungover. Within a minute, a fresh glass is thunked down onto the bar at his elbow without him actually having had to place an order. "Thanks.'

A tip of Cardinal's head sweeps his attention back to the door as it creaks open, and there, his gaze pauses — watching the other man who wears sunglasses at night, his lips pursing in a slight frown. The tips of gloved fingers drum over the glass of his beer bottle for a moment, and then he lifts his voice in a quiet call, although he may not be recognized. "Deckard. Over here."

Deckard is a familiar face in Shooters, if not necessarily as Deckard. The sound of his actual name in a voice that's familiar enough to stir recognition more along the lines of unassociated deja vu turns his head — first to the bartender, who shrugs — then to Cardinal, who doesn't look familiar. A short lens-screened sort of staring contest later, he drags his glass off the bar and himself off the stool, overcoat looped over his left arm while he meanders his way warily over to a table he normally avoids. Too close to the window, maybe.

It's not the most secure corner in the place, at least unless you can turn incorporeal at will. Maybe that's why Cardinal prefers it, really. As the other man approaches, he raises his chin up in an easy sort of nod, waiting for him to draw closer before observing just a hint hopefully, "No eye patch?"

Scuzzy head tipped down so that he can squint over Cardinal's skeleton at closer range, Deckard stands where he is for longer than he should before lowering himself down into the opposite seat. Whiskey follows him down to the table, follows by sunglasses tugged aside and flicked closed with a twist of his fingers. No eye patch. Two chilly blue eyes peer flatly across the table at Card, answer enough on their own.

"Good. Good…" The second repetition more quiet, the faintest of smiles curving to Cardinal's lips; one foot sliding back, dropping to the floor, then the other before he bends forward in a slow lean that drops him into a slouch, folded arms on the table's scratched, stained surface. The shades shield his own eyes as he looks back, asking simply, "Abigail, I suppose?"

There's a slow movement on Deckard's side of the table in turn — right hand crossing his chest to scratch at his shoulder before it falls in past the lapel of a suit that looks like it's on its third day of consecutive wear. At the very least. When he leans back into a slouch, the movement dislodges revolver from holster, sighted nose swung around just under the table to point itself at Cardinal's middle. It doesn't broadcast its presence to the entire place, but it's not exactly subtle either. Particularly not with the weighty click of the hammer being pulled back in accompaniment. "Who are you?"

A smile just-quirks to the other man's lips, though it fades after a moment, head shaking slowly from side to side. "…shit," he murmurs, tone rueful, "Forgot you wouldn't really recognize me." Cardinal leans back ever so slightly, one hand raising in a bit in a sweep that casts the shadow of hand and fingers over the wall, head turned to regard them. "People don't pay much attention to shadows, usually."

Deckard's glare is slower to follow, black pupils constricted back into normalcy after the shadow of Cardinal's hand. He's alert, paranoid, suspicious, tension cinched taut into his jaw and elsewhere around his long face for all that he remains in his casual slouch, thumb still touching light on the hammer. "Shadows don't usually pay much attention to people."

"I've always been an exception to the rule," Cardinal replies, his hand dropping back against the table near the base of his beer, fingers uncurling to brush against the side of the bottle as he gives the man the faintest of smiles, "You look like shit. But. Better'n you were."

"Thanks." The fact that Deckard has an automatic, unruffled response for being told he looks like shit is probably kind of telling. Given the direction his revolver is currently pointing in, however, it might be better that he doesn't take exception. The hammer is carefully released, and the rest of the gun vanishes just as carefully back under his jacket. A jerk of his opposite shoulder ensures that it's snugged into place. "What do you want?"

"Petrelli's head on a platter," comes the answer from the shadowman in dark humor, one shoulder raising in a shrug, "…but we rarely get what we want out've life." The bottle's brought up, and he takes a hearty swallow of the beer, eyes closing behind the shades, "I'm sure you know that story."

"I see you've expanded the scope of your heroism to include government conspiracy and assassination." Right hand now free to collect on his whiskey, that's precisely what it does. The first sip Deckard takes is absorbed with something way too much like relief, a sigh measured in and out through his sinuses as the glass clinks down to the table again. "Maybe I should start charging Teo a commission."

A faint, humorless chuckle stirs its way past Cardinal's lips, his head shaking slowly from side to side. "No," he murmurs against the mouth of his beer, looking at it, "Laudani's… an idealist. So're his people. I'm not." Another swig of beer, and then he sets the bottle to one side, asking curiously, "So what're you doing now, anyway? Somehow, I don't think you're working at your old job…"

"Depends on your definition of idealism." And whether or not it involves slicing people's heads off with swords and/or shooting them in the face with shotguns while they're unconscious. Or arresting people who are slightly more innocent than they are guilty. Or…a lot of other things, really. There's a shift in the angle of his brows that suggests Deckard heard the question about what he's up to while he digs around in his coat after a pack of crappy cigarettes and a lighter, even if he's not in a rush to answer it.

He shrugs once he's lit up, expression flat under a lift of one brow when he holds the cigarette aside to reach for his drink. "I'm waiting to hear back on a position I was offered."

"Best've luck, then," the other man replies, fingers smoothing over the sleeve of his jacket as he leans back down against folded arms. A tilt of his head lets Cardinal watch the doors for a few moments, asking then after the brief period of silence, "You seen the news, lately? Know a lot've people don't have television here. And it's not like the newsguy comes here."

"Bunch of kids killed themselves." Read it, saw it, heard it. One of those three. Whiskey rinses warm over the inside of Deckard's mouth, followed up closely by the damp end of his smoke. He doesn't seem particularly bothered. "Kind of counterintuitive for evolution to go that way."

"Mnm." A sound in the back of Cardinal's throat that's neither approving nor disapproving of the other man's attitude towards the matter. "An argument against intelligent design, I guess." The beer's picked up again, and he gives his head a shake before bringing the bottle towards him, "…what can you tell me 'bout Muldoon?" Well, that was a non sequitur.

"God works in mysterious ways." Down to about half a glass already, Deckard glances to the hand he has caged around its squat station. He really shouldn't go ahead and order another. And yet. His eyes skip inevitably over onto the bar, scruffy jaw setting itself into a sideways slant. "Mysterious, callous, ignorant, destructive, depressing, genocidal ways. Muldoon's British and has a pet monkey. I've only seen him a couple of times."

"Funny thing is, that's more'n anyone else knows about him… maybe I should talk to Zarek," Cardinal murmurs under his breath, although the latter statement is said with about the same distaste as one who was talking about wading through a sewage pipe. There's a quiet beeping from his watch, then, and he tugs his sleeve down to glance at it, looking back up, "Auction's in a little while. You joining in?"

A gruff exhalation at mention of Zarek summarizes Deckard's opinion of said sewage. One hand scrubbed over his jaw, he pries the cigarette away one last time in order to down the rest of his whiskey when Cardinal's watch beeps, and his own non-digital model confirms the same thing at a glance. Auction's in a little while. "No." It's a pretty flat, 'no.' Christ, it's all he can do to afford the average amount of booze and nicotine he takes in day to day.

A hard blink later, he pushes up out of his seat, coat and sunglasses dragged out after him as he goes. "Careful whose asshole you stick you nose in," muttered as a half-hearted warning, he glances to his watch one more time. Then he's off! Back out into the wilderness of Staten to finish getting drunk somewhere else.


idealist
i⋅de⋅al⋅ist Pronunciation [ahy-dee-uh-list]
noun
1. a person who cherishes or pursues high or noble principles, purposes, goals, etc.
2. a visionary or impractical person.


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