Insight and Wisdom


gillian_icon.gif kent_icon.gif

Scene Title Insight and Wisdom
Synopsis Someone has to have it. A runaway teleporter advises a girl to stay put.
Date December 7, 2008

Thomas Jefferson Trailer Farm: Kent's Trailer

There's a trailer park. The trip took her longer without a bike, but Gillian flagged down a taxi (the real kind) to get that time down. Part of her can't help but be tempted to take money from whoever the asshole who knocked on her door happens to be. Travel expenses, living expenses— but she's never liked relying on anyone, which is why she got a job in the first place. Dress warmly, she walks straight up to the trailer.

They had had a "date". Which she skipped out on due to various reasons. The Ditcher got ditched.

She knocks firmly on the door and glances around. She hasn't seen anyone following her since she got out of the cab…

The trailer park is fairly dead at this hour. What little warmth that can be kept inside the bone-white trailers that are scattered all over the park is guarded with closed windows and locked doors, pulled curtains giving way to only a faint glow of light. It's not raining, and so that might be why the strains of a distant guitar, someone playing for his or her self or for an audience, can be heard, despite the cold, despite the setting.

When Gillian knocks, there's no immediate reaction - the windows are dark, indicating that maybe the occupant is asleep. Or maybe he simply isn't home. He could be any millions of places by now.

As fate would have it, he isn't.


Kent comes to a halt several feet away from where he was slowly making his way back home. In fact, the name comes out slightly muffled, and gloved hands come up to pull his scarf down so it doesn't cover up his mouth as well as where it winds around his neck and falls down both his chest and back. A warm jacket covers a sweater, jeans, boots sink into damp grass. "You're a little late."

Damnit. Figured Taxi wouldn't be here. Gillian's just about to turn around and give up when she hears a voice saying her name. There's some dark circles under her eyes, signs of exhaustion and lack of good sleep. There'd even been a hint of a startle, as if not expecting to hear her name, not recognizing the voice as well as she'd like. They'd not been the best of friends for the long time, though they've had a lot of talks before. "Yeah— shit happened." It always does. "Now I want that drink. A lot of that drink, actually. Still offering or should I just call a real taxi and go?"

There's a moment where it seems as though Kent might turn her down, glancing towards his shoes and glasses flashing with reflective light, but then he shakes his head, and offers her a twist of a smile. "Still offering," he says. "I could use a drink myself." The trodden grass barely makes a sound underfoot as he approaches, peeling off his gloves so that contact can come easier, stuffing them into his pockets. He still hasn't gotten that haircut, hair proving to be somewhat curly when a little longer. "You look like you could do with one anyway." He holds out his hands. "Where to?"

"Don't imagine there's any good bars in Antarctica," Gillian says with a hint of a sour tone. It's not meant to be serious, from the look of things. She too removes what gloves she has on, reaching out to take the hand. They don't vanish right away— if nothing else came of what happened to her, she still has this. Control. The one thing in her life she might actually have control over. "Your choice, really. Somewhere else. Somewhere with loud music will be good. Just… tell me when you're ready."

Kent starts a little, as if expecting that they might just vanish— but nothing, so, he relaxes once more. "Loud music, huh?" he says, fingers dancing in indecision against the backs of her hands. It doesn't take too long - he does too much roaming to not know where to go. He takes his last breath of cold trailer park air, and he's not there to let it go again, the two young adults promptly vanishing, leaving the guitarist two rows over playing on his lonesome.

Lower East Side — Mighty Mighty

In contrast to the soft and distant strumming, an edition of Sweet Child of Mine fills their ears, mid-lyric. A live cover band plays its music loud, and the clamour of conversation only barely manages not to override it. They appear underneath a stairwell, shadowed. There's a dance floor that's only semi-occupied, but a large section of the industrial looking bar is taken up by high tables, and further off, away from the music and the bar, booths allow people to relax a fraction. It's filled with college students (or older looking highschoolers with fake IDs) and no real sense of dresscode, but there's music, and there's alcohol. "Welcome to Mighty Mighty," Kent says, voice raising over the music as he lets go of her hands. "Bar's just that way.

As soon as she's given the indication, the surge adds in to his ability, boosting his range and allowing them to teleport a little easier. Gillian's still queasy, though, needing a moment where she steadies herself on the stairwell. "Mighty Mighty?" she repeats the name, loud enough so it carries. It's a weird comfort, noise. "I won't mock your choice. I just want something with… something to drink."

The trek over to the bar won't take too long. If he'd heard her order the first night, he might know that she likes drinks with interesting names, so when she leans over to make her order, she orders a drink called Death by Sex in a glass. Vodka, almond and peach liqueur, gin, triple sec and peach schnapps.

As if to counter her choice, Kent gets himself a couple of beers - two dollar specials, because, you know. He lives in a trailer and vodka and gin and liqueur in a glass doesn't come cheap, even in student bars. He takes out a wallet from his pocket - an almost feminine one, by the looks of it, and he hastily ruffles rifles through, taking out a few bank notes and sliding them over. "That should more than make up for it," he says over the music in regards to her glass, only teasing if his half-smile has anything to say about it. "You know, there probably are places to drink in Antarctica. I dunno what else you'd do down there. Up there?"

"Down, up— does it really matter? It's whatever way south is," Gillian murmurs softly as she watches the drink get served like a cocktail, on ice. When it finally gets to her it even has a straw stuck in it, no other garnish. Another place, there might be one. This guy had to get read the drinks to include. And no, it won't be cheap. Luckily, she'll pay for anything else, most likely.

"There's penguins and ice. And according to monster movies mutant sled dogs from outterspace." And now one serial killer, sister murderer— "You know what I hate?" She suddenly changes the subject, talking loud enough to be heard. "Son of a bitch men who think they're God. Think they can tell you what to do, who to be, where to go." She takes a long drink from her cocktail. Sour.

"God, huh?" Kent says, leaning against the bar, figuring this is their prime location for however long it takes to sate the lady's thirst. He takes a long sip of his beer, then gestures with the bottle when he's done. "Lemme guess, you walked out on some guy who thought he could own you? Probably a good thing, relationships like that never work out." It's not as though he's had a normal existence - or maybe he has, all things considered - but he can't help but leap to a conclusion more mundane than the reality.

"No, this isn't a guy I was with— it's a fucker who barged in one day and wrecked my entire life," Gillian grumbles, shaking her head. "He's like my landlord, or some shit." Only not. Maybe manager? Certainly thinks he is. "He's a creep and an asshole. I thought I'd been meeting some pretty bad people, but this guy." There's no inclination to leave the bar at this point, yet. Such a conversation, being vague, could easily be taken as normal if anyone could overhear. The drink gets nursed for a moment, but even with all that peach, she still sounds sour. Must be the triple sec. "I could just leave. Take everything and go. I pretty much planned on it after we had this drink. Packing up and getting on a train or something, who knows." She hadn't thought that far ahead yet.

"There's reasons I want to stay. But… fuck him. And fuck whatever horse he rode in on."

Hoboy. Kent gives a small smile - not because of her anger, he's not about to enjoy her problems as cynical as he can be sometimes, but because, for him, things seem to make sense. "Well I think with you, we could go anywhere," he says, then hesitates, eyes shutting for a moment to briefly reflect on how stupid that sounded. "I mean, I could probably help, if you needed to get out of town, but— decide later. Tomorrow. Next week. When you're not talking about fucking horses." Pause. "But if you need to keep talking, I can," he makes a gesture with his hand, pinching fingers together, a indicative of shutting up, "and listen."

"I don't want to fuck the horse. Or him. Godzilla can fuck them both for all I care." Gillian shakes her head, even though the horse hadn't been literal. She downs another straw full of her drink— probably drinking it too fast, honestly. Did she eevn eat today? That moment is used to settle down, to think about more than a thirty story tall monster coming along and doing unspeakable things to whoever the hell Michael really is. All of it is that man's fault.

"I think I left my job and my home for no reason," she finally says. "I think I did it because some one was tricking me, using me. Trying to get me to do something else— I still don't know what. But whatever it is I want to kill the son of a bitch." The last part might make this less normal.

Then again threats are thrown about all the time in bars, people get drunk. It might be ignored if anyone overhears it as undirected rage. And it might be. "So you're basically saying I should think on it?"

Her threat is easily filed under 'hyperbole', while the guy she'd been with previously would have taken her seriously. Deadly so. No, what concerns Kent is the mention of her leaving her job, her home, and, a little confused, he takes a pull of beer as she continues, then shrugs at her question. "Call me the biggest hypocrite in the world, but, it's not always so great. Just taking off like," he snaps fingers, "that without thinking it through, so fast you burn bridges you didn't mean to. I mean, this is your city, right? Running away isn't freedom. You just hit more walls as you go." He sounds as if he knows what he's talking about, pausing before he can continue and opting to drain his first beer, moving on to the second.

Though she shot a man with scars across his face a few times, Gillian probably couldn't have done it in the end. This man is right, though. Running away, again, isn't freedom. She leans down over the bar and actually placing her head down on it. The cocktail still has a good many sips left. The buzz might be getting to her. It doesn't last too long. She lifts back up, the lights dancing on the reddish highlights. "Leaving would just mean he drove me away from something else I want." That's pretty much what he said. "You're smarter than you look, Taxi."

Kent gives both a shy and self-deprecating chuckle at her comment, shrugging a little and his other hand coming up to unwrap his scarf some, as it's warm in here. "Irony that abilities sort of give insight into what not to do, right? Pretty sure it's irony. I think you should stay. Maybe after a while I could afford to take you somewhere nicer." That should be a line, and maybe if this was their first encounter, it would be - but somehow it sounds like what it is, a friendly offer of another outing when they both could use it.

Back when they first met, the line version would have attracted a little more attention. Now it could be the drink mixed with everything else that just makes Gillian nod vaguely, "Sure— why the fuck not. I can pay for myself, next time— don't need anything fancy. This was to make up for that drink that you made me lose." Then again… "Though that was really my fault. Mutual fault." Not that she's suddenly shelling out the cash and paying him back, though. She drinks more for a moment, pondering. Abilities giving insight? If hers gave insight… The drinking stops. Soon there will be nothing but ice in the glass. "Thanks, Kent. Think I know how to handle this now."

Blue eyes glance towards her emptied glass, and the corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk. "Yeah?" Kent says, but only nods - doesn't ask what her revelation is. "Happy to help. You need another one of those Death By— things or are you appropriately watered?"

"If I drink anymore, I'll probably not make it back home," Gillian says, noticably glassy eyed at this point already. Energy's starting to leak out. Hope there's no nuclear men in the area… It's not enough to make him randomly teleport, as long as they don't touch. Realizing it, though, she says, "Probably not a good idea to touch me right now, either. Didn't even think of that…" she shakes her head, drinking down the dregs before pushing the ice-filled glass across the bar. "Think you could get me to the Bronx?"

"Where abouts in the Bronx?" Kent asks, shooting for clarity as well as agreeing. Economic conversation. He gathers his beer into his hand, then gestures the bartender over, pantomiming a request - two fingers are held up, then one pointed to his beer, a smile when it's understood and the employee sets about uncapping two bottles for him.

"Kingpin's Bowling Alley," Gillian says, not bothering to hide it from this man. Not her apartment, but— "It's where I work now, too. So if you want to stop by and get a beer and a lane, you can. I'll learn your shoe size. Just be sure to read my name tag." There's one of that meaningful look. She doesn't outright say 'don't call me Gillian.'. She trusts him to figure it out. After a few moments she gives an address, some better directions… even as her voice is starting to get tired.

Kent simply nods at the instruction - whether he understands it will have to be tested at a later time. For now, he simply picks up the two bottles of beer, ignoring the bartender who waits for his money which he, sadly, won't be receiving— and Kent's free hand shoots out to grab Gillian's.

A flicker of settings waltz by - a rooftop, a store closed for the night which sets an alarm off, but they don't get to hear it as they vanish instant and pop into existence just outside her work place.

"You okay?" Kent checks, because he for one knows that teleportion, or the sensations of it, don't mix so good with any kind of heavy drinking.

Parking Lot at the Kingpin's Bowling Alley, Bronx

Wobble. Gillian actually hadn't been expecting him to teleport without paying the tab, right in front of the man. She can't lean against him, though, so she ends up squatting on the pavement outside her workplace. It's still open. Not midnight yet. No one's looking. Only a few people inside, no one in the parking lot. Except them. "That— okay— next time, real taxi." She looks light headed. "I'll make it the rest of the way to my apartment… you just— ran off without paying for those." It's not said in a 'you're a bad man' voice. No chastising. If anything she just sounds… amused. And tired. "My place isn't too far away." Her place. "So you can… make your way back."

"It's not exactly a bar I'm hurting over not getting to go back to and hey, free beer. For the road," Kent says, and for someone like him, he seems far too casual about his act of petty theft. Just another moment of every day life. "You're— listen." He starts to reach towards, then remembers and withdraws his hand. "If you need help, you could— I don't have a phone, but what I mean is, there're these people that— they help. Sort of a charity but it goes further than that. They help people avoid the government and whatever else is out there. People like us. So if you need anything besides a drink, you can ask. I can see what— maybe I can help."

This mention draws her eyes. Gillian's not too drunk to listen. She's just light headed and ready to fall off to bed. What he says draws her eyes. Escape route. In many ways, that's something she wants very much. Or at least the choice of one. "All right. I know where to find you— or at least where I can slip a note under the door. And now you know a place you can find me." She looks at the bowling alley. There's lights on. "If you need to leave a message here, leave it for Leanne. Lennox." Nametag thing revealed. "Can't promise I'll take them up on this offer, but… it's nice to have a choice."

It's not like Kent can cast stones about fake names. "No promises needed," Kent says, unknowing voicing her thoughts exactly when he adds, "It's just an option." He glances around the streets, as if wary of leaving her be, but ultimately, he seems to decide to let her alone. Two bottles of beer hanging loosely in one hand, he lifts the third he'd been drinking from in a semi-salute. "I'll talk to you later, Leanne," he says, rather uselessly backing up a step before he disappears. Not even anywhere visible, perhaps the leak of her ability getting him home.

December 7th: We Can Rebuild Him
December 7th: Hemingway Was A Badass
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