Say The Word


deckard_icon.gif elisabeth_icon.gif

Scene Title Say The Word
Synopsis Elisabeth drops in on Deckard to pose an important question. All things considered, it doesn't go that bad.
Date March 8, 2009

NYPD Headquarters

It's easy enough to get to Deckard when you're one of the officers who arrested him. The guards let her into the cell block with no trouble, yeah sure she's gotta sign in and all. But still, it's easy as pie. Elisabeth walks down the corridor to Deckard's cell and stops in front of it, glancing around. What other inhabitants are in here at the moment are paying little attention or else they're leering at her. Whatever. She seems entirely unconcerned. She wraps herself and his cell in a bubble of silence — all the sounds of the jail are completely gone from their vicinity, like a mute button was pressed. It may be something he's familiar with, she doesn't even know. "Deckard," she calls to get his attention.

Not exactly. Lying on his side, back to the barred outer wall of his cell, Deckard lifts his head and starts to roll stiffly over onto his back the second it sinks in that everything's gone really, really quiet. The patched side of his head turns over first, followed soon enough by the bleary blue squint of his good eye, too bright in the dim lighting that dominates his current digs. Initially it seems likely that he's not going to bother getting up, but after a deep drawn breath and some procrastinating, he makes his way up to the cell front, bandaged wrist braced against the barring while the fingers opposite it curl on through to support some of his weight. He lifts his brows. What?

Elisabeth studies him quietly as he moves. She's only just been told of the fracas yesterday. Her blue eyes hold compassion, but she doesn't beat around the bush with him. "Teo sent me to ask you if you want his help getting out or if you'd rather be left here."

Deckard smells better, at least. He's had a chance to shower, even though he's back in the same dress shirt and slacks he was in upon his arrest, for lack of anything else to stuff him in prior to transfer elsewhere. There's some dry blood on his right sleeve to match the bandaging on the same side — evidence of his misbehavior since he's been here. His expression is inscrutable on the other side of the bars, mouth pressed flat and gaze on the verge of mild suspicion. "It's a little late in the game to change your definition of justice now."

There's a pause as Liz formulates her answer, keeping it short. "One, my definition of justice had nothing to do with your arrest — I never had any damn intention of bringing you in; I told you that from the start. Two, I didn't know you and Ivanov had history and bad blood, or I would have chanced the run to Staten alone — so I owe you an apology for that. Three, if you'd called me as I asked, I could have just asked what I needed over the phone, or even answered the questions that night instead of shoving your hands at Ivanov and telling him to go ahead and bring you in, we'd have never been in this situation. We're both to blame for this clusterfuck. Do you want out, or no? It's your choice."

"Playing pattycake with the fuzz is a bad idea when you're a terrorist. Things like this happen." Matter-of-fact, Deckard looks out and aside, past Elisabeth to study the goings on elsewhere in the block. Nobody else seems to be suffering the same kind of silence that fills his cell. "Here we are, cop and con, and you're putting your career on the line because I could give a damn about you shackling some poor kid with control problems and Felix couldn't keep it in his pants. Awkward."

He talks too much sometimes, one eye flicking down again to watch her more carefully while he leans in a little closer. Not too much closer, granted. He's right up on the bars opposite her as things are. "My business with Felix is my business. I'm sorry he made it yours."

Elisabeth tilts her head and says sincerely, "No… I'm sorry I brought it to your doorstep. And believe me, I know how rough playing pattycake is." She smirks faintly. "My career's on the line every time I do something that's worth doing lately, so this is nothing unusual in the last few months." She's not getting so close to the bars as to be within arm's reach, but she does seem sincere enough in her apology. "I know you could give a shit about this kid… the trouble is, I need to know what you saw that's got you running scared before I can even begin to figure out how it fits, Deckard. For all I know, you're gonna tell me what you saw and it's not going to even be important to the case. What I *do* think it's important to is perhaps how to keep you safe. But it's your call. Whether you tell me what you saw or not doesn't determine whether Teo and the rest of us get you loose." She shakes her head. "Wish to hell this hadn't come down like this."

"I have a lot of things to be afraid of. Including you people. Maybe you most of all, lately. Experimentation, erasing my memory, arresting me for murders you know I didn't commit. At least the guys that cut out my eyeball were going to let me die right off, without decades of prison to worry about between here and there." 'You people,' is apparently some sort of conglomerate block of all lawful organizations everywhere. Deckard fails to get specific, anyway, fingers resettling their grip around weathered steel in the seconds before his forehead tips to a rest against it as well. He's thinking about it.

There's a faint, rueful smile. "Not for nothing, but you do realize that a number of the charges on your sheet are *not* fabricated, right?" Liz comments mildly. She sighs and looks at him. "Maybe it's time you think about doing something else with your life — new face, new line of work. Just a thought."

"I don't think I've ever claimed to be a good person." In truth, he couldn't really even claim not to be a murderer, which is enough to ensure that his eyes stay elsewhere while his memory traces back into uncomfortable places. "Or a responsible one. But I have been around, and I did help save the fucking world, even if it was only so that I'd still have a place to sleep and fuck." The suggestion of a new face and a new line of work is met with a lean back away from the bars while the majority of his weight settles back onto his feet, and he shrugs a shoulder. "I'm not very good at anything else. You have some way to prove to me that you aren't pulling my leg?"

With that question, Elisabeth says quietly, "No. I don't. Teo may, if you ask him. I've been told that we have contacts with some people who can make it happen — for example, if I'm burned, they have a way to change my face and let me set up a new life. So I can't imagine that it's something that Teo'd tell you isn't for you or something." She shrugs. "I suppose I could be wrong about that, but I don't think I am. And it's little enough recompense for helping save the fucking world, don't you think?" She sighs again, and says, "I can't stay much longer; they'll get suspicious. I know my word means shit to you, Deckard. But I'm not lying to you or offering you false hope. Lost too many people in this fight, and even if you're *not* a 'good' man… you're one that did a damn good thing, and no one'll ever know or even say thank you for it."

"He's already offered once. I said no." Voice flat, Deckard flexes his fingers around the bars one last time before he lets his hands fall back to his sides to listen to the rest. There's no reaction, really. He still isn't looking at her, immediate response aborted in the form of an exhalation through his teeth. "I've never cared much for please and thank you anyway."

There's a pause that insinuates the end of the conversation, then: "Two Asian men unloaded a younger white guy out of the back of a truck. His hands were zip-tied. He was yelling, had short hair — I don't know what color. They dragged him into an alley, but were chased down by a guy in a suit and his girlfriend, I guess. She had dark hair, medium length. Good looking girl. I'd hit it. Anyway. They wanted the kid too. Both had ports on their guns — high-end type shit. They shot the first two guys."

Eye ticking up quick over the far wall, he mutters to himself, sorting things out in his head a little before he continues. How to describe it, exactly.

"The zip-tied kid tried to get away. The guy in the suit jumped into the van, I guess to try and cut him off at the other end of the alley. I shot two of his tires out while the woman went after the kid on foot. When she got to him, she…." He stops again, swallows, knits his brow. "She turned into something I — I don't know. Her skeleton was all over the place. Bones disorganized, then back again, only something else was trying to climb out of her. I ran."

Elisabeth merely listens, her eyes on the man in the cell. He has her full attention as he describes what he saw. Asian guys who wanted the kid matches up with what they already know — the kid owed money. The guy in the suit and his girlfriend…. guessing that'd be the Homeland Security agent who got gooey. "Can't say I blame you," she comments quietly when he's done. "Can you describe the woman for me, and the guy in the suit? And I'm assuming Tyler Case was not swooped into the van that you shot the tires of, yes?"

"I didn't stick around to see what happened to him." Frowning to himself now, as if annoyed by his own disclosure, Deckard shakes his head slightly. "She was short. 5'6", maybe, at most. In good shape. Tight ass. Brown hair, dark eyes. Pretty face, nice lips. Kind of a bitch." The list is strung out in no real kind of order, and he doesn't actually turn his head to look directly at Elisabeth again until he's done. "Didn't get a good look at the guy."

Elisabeth nods slowly. "All right." She shrugs a bit. "It helps," she tells him quietly. "Thanks." At least it helps nail down a timeline. Elisabeth looks at him and says, "I know you turned him down once. I'm asking one more time — I don't know if I'll be able to get to you to offer again after this, they're likely to be moving you soon. Between the charges that are actually yours and the ones they've trumped up, they're unlikely to let you stay much longer. If you want out… say the word, Deckard. We'll make it happen."

Deckard watches the nod a little too closely, unsubtle in his scraping search for anything along the lines of disbelief or other weirdness. Finding none, he drags paired knuckles across the bars as he turns to retake his place on the flat pallet of his temporary bed. "Get me out of here."

It's funny, the things that come to you in weird moments. Deckard's name has popped up now and again in conversation, but really this incident's the first time she's laid eyes on the man. And a conversation with Teo a few days after Armageddon 2009 broke loose plays through her thoughts for just a moment, and she starts to chuckle softly. "Count on it, Deckard… don't need my ass kicked by Wozniak when I get to Hell," Elisabeth comments, apropos of nothing. "For what it's worth, by the way? You were right…. 14-year-old boy wth too many comic books." Although *WHY* that should pop up now… eh. Chalk it up to a crappy, awful month and one of those weird moments of clarity. "I'll get the message to Teo. We'll see you soon." The waits only long enough to see if he has anything else to say and then turns to head back out of the cell block. When she's gone, the usual noise and bullshit of the jail becomes audible again.

A tip of Deckard's head acknowledges his own correctness, however depressing the context might be, but he doesn't have much to say on the subject. It's been a long day. Week. Month. Year. He's as slow to sink down onto the side of his cot as he was to push himself off of it earlier, right hand scrubbed over the back of his head. By the time he turns enough to look back out through the bars, she's gone.

March 8th: What Did Forensics Turn Up?
Previously in this storyline…
What Did Forensics Turn Up?

Next in this storyline…
Can You Tell Me If She's Alive?

March 8th: Obliterated
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