Participants:
| Scene Title | Planning |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | April is collating information. Doyle is bored. April shares some of her information; Doyle is still at loose ends afterwards. For now. |
| Date | April 29, 2009 |
She has information. Records supplied by Reed; a multitude of them. Things gleaned with her own eyes and ears and resources remembered; there's a ten-year difference in April's experience, but the agent's tricks are still there to be tapped. And if she's really careful, she can pull off a portrayal of her younger self, approach a few informants. It doesn't seem to have gotten back to Agent Bradley yet. Hopefully it never will.
The evening is not as bright as past days have been, cloud cover veiling most but not all of the sky; the setting sun is a bright spot behind darkening fluff. Inside one of the textile factory buildings, in one of the three rooms April has claimed for her own, battery-powered lights supplement the fading daylight. Three tables are set at intervals inside the otherwise largely empty space; they are covered with papers, except for the end of one, which holds that netbook and the short sticks of several flashdrives. Sheets of butcher paper have been taped up on one of the walls, covering most of its surface; lists of names, the final versions of floorplans drawn from halting memory and oblique references.
The woman herself stands in front of the floorplans, capped marker held against her chin. The jacket has been draped across a chairback — one of a few chairs in the room — while April works.
"My, my, Miss Silver…" The words are casual from the doorway as Eric Doyle pushes open the door and steps within, one hand raising to rub against his heavy chin and neck as he brings his head up, looking over the floorplans, the dangling battery-powered lights, the tables covered in papers. "…one would almost think you had something planned. Or, one supposes, the good Doctor was."
A throaty chuckle as he walks along in as casual as one would walk into a restaurant, hands clasping at the small of his back, a smile just-crooking up at one corner of his mouth to join her there before the floorplans that rise up over the wall.
"Planning, Mister Doyle," the woman corrects, turning around to face him only after she speaks. Her hands lower to her sides. "It's what I'm 'supposed' to do."
Some of the names are familiar. Robert Bishop, Angela Petrelli, Elle Bishop, and others besides: possibly not Pinehearst. Arthur Petrelli, Roger Goodman, Jonathan Carmichael, Adam Monroe, more: Pinehearst. Some on the 'Pinehearst' list don't have names; there are descriptions with questionmarks beside them, waiting for more info.
The floorplans aren't familiar. Not… quite. But it might be concluded that they belong to the Bronx facility, or somewhere associated with Pinehearst, or perhaps both; such is their context. Some are complete. Some aren't yet. The papers on the table are source material for all of these things — printouts of text files, memos, pictures; scribbled notes; earlier drafts and sketches. April's been working on this for a while, it seems.
"At least you have something to do to pass the time…" A bored exhalation of words and breath from Doyle as he looks over the butcher-paper, thumbs hooking into his suspenders as he rocks back and forth heel-to-toe on his feet a bit. The puppeteer's lips purse as he reads the names, murmuring quietly, "Ah, there's some familiar names. And some new ones. I owe some of those people… quite… a… bit."
She looks sidelong at Doyle, then turns away, setting the marker down and beginning to shuffle the papers on the tables. Returning them to order from their current disarray. "I'm aware," April replies to his last remark. Her tone is rather neutral on that subject; definitely devoid of animosity. It seems the Company hasn't offended April in the way it has others. She doesn't, however, linger on the subject. "Edward didn't give you marching orders? I thought you'd spoken to him by now."
A derisive snort of breath answers that, Doyle's nostrils flaring briefly as he continues to look over the names, idly searching for a particular one on the list — Odessa. "I did," he replies in irritated tones, "And he just gave me more orders for Reed. He'll 'have a use for me later', apparently… I'm starting to get tired of his little games."
Odessa isn't on the list; she isn't part of the Company now. Hasn't come up on April's radar, such as it is — and the many, many files of people the Company knows about aren't her current interest. Once upon a time — once upon this very time — but not for the woman who doesn't properly belong in this now.
She pauses in her sorting, looks once more over to the puppeteer. "And you're still waiting." But then, so is she. Maybe she shouldn't be so surprised. April looks down towards the table, catches sight of the glint of gold on her left hand. "Ultimately, we're going to stop Pinehearst." That's something they can all agree on, at least. "So I've been gathering information with that in mind. And eventually Edward's going to want to get himself out of Company holding. You and Niles have already both mentioned the same." Hazel eyes lift to some of the diagrams, set expression masking the thoughts behind them. Fortunately, Doyle isn't a mindreader.
At the lack of that name, Eric's lips purse briefly. No mindreader she, either; it's impossible to say why. The puppeteer turns a bit to look at her, his head canting in a slight nod as he points out, "I'm not on Level Five anymore. I'm… in Moab, in this time. Hm. The Bronx Facility is still up and running? I would've thought it was mostly abandoned, after the raid…." A faint chuckle shakes his shoulders, seeming amused by this, "Oops. See where assumptions get me."
"Then I don't know where 'you' are," April replies. "As best I can tell, Moab isn't operating anymore. Of course, my sources aren't all that good." But they're probably good enough. She moves around the table, starts picking up the other side. Another brief glance at the puppeteer. "No, it's still active. They changed the security protocols. Upgraded it, I suppose. Some of the amendments were built into Moab's systems, in fact."
A heartier chuckle from the puppet-master, though there's not a hint of warmth to it; a glint in his eyes as he grins openly. "My bad, then," Doyle says, seeming definitely amused by something. A rake of his eyes back to the butcher paper, asking casually, "…and what about you? Is there a you somewhere…" A vague sweep of his hand over the plans, "…in there?"
In response, April shakes her head. "No. I was never held anywhere other than Moab." Not by the Company, not by Pinehearst, not by Homeland Security. Gives her a lot fewer excuses for animosity. She looks across the table at Doyle. "If you'll excuse me, I still have a lot more files to go through. Unless there's something else?"
"No, no, I should let you get back to your… planning." A fair imitation of how she spoke when he first stepped in, and Eric turns away from the posters upon the wall, heading at an unhurried stroll towards the door once more, one hand lifting to smooth back over his bald pate and scratch at the nape of his neck. As he walks, he adds, "Do let me know if you need any help, hm? I'll be over in my rooms, working on my puppets…"
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