Participants:
| Scene Title | What Must Be Your Marionette |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Diogenes finds what he was looking for. What is expected is anyone's guess. |
| Date | September 3, 2009 |
A young man paces worriedly back and forth along a lengthy street that runs slightly downhill and is embraced by moderately short buildings that contrast the skyscrapers New York is famous worldwide for; the youthful delinquent is wearing a cheap worn hoodie, a pair of dark sweatpants and partially torn grimy sneakers that look older than humanity itself. One of his hands is deep in the pocket of his drooping pants, while the other is grooming his cleanly shaven head. He's nervously eyeing two men from across the aforementioned street. They're arguing. Soon, one of them is going to pull out a knife. The other one will pull out a gun. The skinhead, who arranged this little argument, will walk up to the one who lost the short-lived war, and loot the body clean, ignoring the screams a block away, where events no less morbid take place.
That's Staten Island in broad daylight. At night, surprisingly, machinations of the malicious are not much louder. They multiply in numbers, but they're mostly invisible to the naked eye. Sure, you might see someone running away before being shot in the back and crumpling to the ground in agony and screams. Sure, you might witness a car ramming someone against the telephone booth before driving away. Hardly anything out of the ordinary, right? True evil - either subjective or objective - breeds beneath the ground, figuratively speaking. Staten Island at night might be just as (relatively) quiet as it is at night, but it's much more unforgiving and merciless once the sun hides.
It is in this world void of light and order that Diogenes has to find one woman. A woman without a house to call her home, without a family to call her own; a woman who was humiliated by being hit in the back of a head with a household item by an uncouth cosmetologist with pierced nipples. Where does one find an injured albino kidnapper? Diogenes has only one answer to that - shelters. Tiny dots of fragile tranquility scattered about, like mirages of an oasis in the desert. It is these short-lasting illusions of peace that Diogenes visits. Several of them.
Needless to say, he hates it. Stench-ridden rats— No, pigs, happily rolling about in their shit, content with where they are in life. They weren't bottom feeders. Hell, they weren't exactly in the food chain, one could say. They were outside most, if not all societal rules and laws, those written down and those taken for granted. That is why communicating with them is exceptionally difficult - you hardly can offer to them anything that they can't steal or find in a dumpster, and you can hardly make their existence even worse.
But Thomas - or Diogenes as he prefers - perseveres. He gives away his costly jacket, he uses his silver tongue. He lies, he cheats, he intimidates. In one shelter, everyone runs off scared after he showcases his ability. In another shelter, Diogenes does the running as the hobos turn out to be prison escapees. It's anything but a pleasant experience as he tries to hunt down the infamous Sandman - Maeve Buchanan.
It's only when the Sun warily lights up the horizon as if asking the notorious Staten for permission to rise does Diogenes find what he's looking for. Excitement ignites with sparks in his formerly tired dull grey eyes, in response to recognition glittering in the eyes of the homeless man with a ZZ Top-esque beard and a long coat - a cheap knock-off of something Neo would wear.
"Ye'… Yeah, I saw tha' kid, th' one on the right", the old fart mutters in his tired voice, recognising Diana, Raquelle's daughter. "Been dragged by that woman you mention'd", he adds, switching his attention to the slim man, who by now is smirking as if he found treasure to last him a lifetime.
"You don' really look like 'er husband."
"I was drunk; long story", comes the reply from the modern day Diogenes.
The hobo snorts deeply, dragging all of that disgusting snot into his throat to spew the hefty amount of mucus towards the ground, to his side. A preface for the most important question, as far as he was concerned: "Wha' do I get?" The most important question, but it was also rhetoric. The question that hid behind that one was 'You can't really give me anything I'd want, can you?'
Slowly burying the picture (torn to exclude Raquelle) in one of his pants' pockets, Diogenes looks the man up and down closely, sizing him up, appraising him. "Something like… Another decade of this miserably parasitic life in this worthless shithole. Enjoy." Diogenes inclines his head like a true gentleman, offering a smile that can hardly be mistaken for anything other than an ungentlemanly derisive smirk.
Another day is slowly creeping up on Staten Island. Run of the mill criminals are rising out of their bed, forgetting their shallow promises of yesterday - promises to themselves to start a new, better life. One tucks a butterfly knife into his pocket, another one sneaks a gun behind his pants, above his derriere. And in the depths of this urban nightmare, in one alleyway that barely stands out among the rest, Diogenes is deliberately taking hesitant steps towards the shelter he was pointed to. He would finally meet the Sandman. In here. Now. Or so he hoped.
The door will give beneath his fingers, unlocked not out of a sense of trust or welcome, but because there is truly nothing to take. This place does not boast comfort or safety to those who cannot defend themselves. It boasts a rooftop and a place to exist for however long one can stand it. The shelters on the mainland provide more. The shelters on Staten Island are hovels that those who need shelter have cut out for themselves.
Light beams in through the dirty windows, and there's someone on an old couch. Not the wraith-like willowy figure of the Sandman or the bundled up form of a little girl, but something male that reeks of bourbon, cigarettes, and sweat. He isn't breathing, either, and there's white dust in his collar, streaking in his overgrown stubble. It's been a long time since Maeve bothered to clean up after herself.
It's where you go when you've done something bad. Staten Island, that is. Killed someone. Stole something. Took a little girl. The lower storey of the shelter provides no other signs of life or death. Detective work will find the chalky tracks of powder on surfaces, the handles of cupboards.
The railing of the staircase, too, which seems the logical path to take. This seems to have once been a nice townhouse. Neglect, the foot steps of many, the graffiti and the abandoned cigarettes and broken glass and marks of small fires all have aged it by two more decades, not two years.
Quietly close the door.
Quietly?
The door cries in agony as Diogenes attempts to shut it closed as silently as possible. Instead of twitching and squirming in fear of attracting attention, the young man can't help but smirk, reminded rather randommly of numerous mornings when he tried not to alert his family when similarly opening the dresser that stubbornly refused to cooperate just like this aged door. How morbidly amusing.
Almost as amusing as the pathetic sight on the couch. However, Diogenes did not arrive to a stand-up comedy gig. He arrived to a known serial killer who most likely will not hesitate to get rid of this dark-haired, dark-eyed and darkly dressed man, or torment him; Maeve's behavioural patterns weren't exactly known to Thomas. And that is why he slides the white clinical mask off his forearm and slides it over his visage.
Preparation. The most important part.
His eyes scan the surroundings, noting the presence of the mystical substance. He was curious what it truly was, but alas, he was no scientist. And he was far more interested in the woman who spread this… 'cocaine', as Raquelle described it. And where is she? Upstairs? Residues of the powder suggest so. And so, step by step, he warily ventures upstairs.
The stairs creak, too. The soft skree, skree, skree underfoot is continual and present, no matter how quiet Diogenes tries to tread. Ahead of him, a circular window, remarkably untouched, lets in soft golden morning light, and almost breathes some life into the house. The dust in the air is, thankfully, just dust, and whirls like dervishes when the light strikes it.
As his foot touches down upon the second floor, there's a quiet but very determined snikt of a closing door. It's the only one, every other door in various states of ajar like the gappy teeth of someone who's been knocked around a few times. But at the end of the hallway is one sealed shut, those a gap in its surface reveals a missing lock, so there is that.
And the question of what's behind it, of course.
The door from earlier discourages Diogenes to pursue a silent approach. If the door is old enough to betray his presence, then the stairs will be no better. Which is why there's not only skree, skree, skree, but also obnoxious and daring top, top, top. And once he climbs this depressingly abandoned Mount Everest, he looks around similarly to how he took in his surroundings below. He's in no rush to look towards the door; it's far enough to make sure that if anyone tries to bullrush him, they'll end up on the floor, immobile.
How quaint. Prosaic and poetic at the same time. Depressing and uplifting. This locale was truly something. Diogenes takes a couple of steps forward, and his eyes finally land on the door before him. If not for the pervasive stench and gods know what diseases hiding in the woodwork, this place is actually attractive… bizarrely so. To a man just as bizarre, at least. Most others would more than likely not even dare to take a peak inside, never mind wander about freely in this abode of the hopeless.
"I can see through walls", he shouts out after tugging on his mask so that his words wouldn't be muffled, "I can see you!" Yeah, right.
If he could see, he'd see spider-leg fingers curled against the surface of the door, a palm only an inch off the surface and starting to collect with chalky residue that falls past her wrist. He'd see the twitch of her head in reaction to his words, and the skeleton of an old bedroom behind her, and the doll figure discarded in the darkness. He'd see, if his vision was anything like X-ray, the white glow of a knife in her hand.
He can't. But she doesn't know that. It's not courage that she steels herself with, shoulders hiking up a notch and jaw like steel. Preperation and wariness. The door, like so many rusted hinges, squeaks too, and almost too easily, Maeve steps out into the hallway.
A woolen skirt hangs from her hips, and her feet are bare against the wooden floor. Exposed shins reveal bruises and scratches until her legs disappear beneath the grey fabric. A wife beater, black and clean and spattered with her own sleepy dust hangs off her long torso, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. Nothing else, no jewelry, nothing of more comfort, and the knife in her hand is the kind you cut steak with.
"Now you see me," she says, her voice clipped.
"Sorry, I'm usually not the type to lie", he confesses, his words escaping in a murmur through the mask.
His gaze burrows deep into Maeve, and despite the illusion of him eyeing and sizing the strange woman up, he plucks the string controlling Maeve's hand holding the knife with the aim to have her drop it. Give it a few seconds, though, and she would regain control of it.
His eyes lift his gaze up to the woman's visage. "Unlike you, I do not rely on some powder. Now, we can either talk like this, or we can talk with you drawing strained breaths on the ground. I'm enough of a gentleman to grant you that choice", he speaks in a soft tone; soft enough to imply that he's mocking Maeve. Diogenes falls silent, then, canting his head to the side and patiently anticipating Maeve's response, be it physical or verbal. And in case it's the former, his eyes drop to search for her spine and focus on it, lest the woman is quicker than he expects.
She only notices the knife dropping when it makes its clatter against the ground, jerking a look downwards and twitching away with enough force to knock her shoulder into the wall. Maeve makes no sound, simply brings up her hand, twitches her fingers inwards before curling them into a white knuckled, experimental fist. The knife is completely forgotten, where it lies on the ground, as she turns her dark, blue-green eyes towards him and his mask.
"Talk like this. You here to…" Her words trail off, shakily, before she takes her weight off the wall. Her heel nudges the knife aside as she comes closer, a swagger in her step and caution in the set of her expression. "You one of White's?"
An off-handed, seemingly random comment flies into the air: "You look like shit."
Quite frankly, however, Diogenes did not look his best, either. Joy of finally having discovered the Sandman was eclipsed by his exhaustion. He was on his feet the entire night, and his knees were slightly bent, pulled down towards the ground by gravity. It's not that he was half-crouching; his kneecaps just ever so subtly pushed forth. His legs were sore. He was tired. He was surprised he could even use his ability. Some of his weariness can be picked up, whereas most of it is brushed beneath the proverbial couch. Hide your weakness and you just might make your opponent think you don't have one.
"Norman White? No, I am not one of White's", he finally addresses her concerns. "I am not one of anyone", he reaffirms, standing rigidly not too far from the troubled woman. To think that the cat would become the mouse, that the killer would be this worked up. Was she scared?
"I am Diogenes. You've heard of him, right? If not, allow me to educate you." One step forward. "Diogenes of Sinope was a Greek philosopher." Another step forward. "And he could be found wandering about in broad daylight, carrying a light in his hand." Yet another bold step forth. "He was looking for an honest man. So am I." His focus of her spine is let go; he's coldly staring into her eyes. "We'll talk while I look at your injuries, or I'll leave you here, paralysed for life. Again, the choice is yours."
It's the universal law of bullies. Show them you're bigger and meaner and they tremble into cowards. Maeve is one, but not that simply so. Alert, her head tilted, she watches the way he steps forward and forward and forward more than really listens to his word, but that last part gains recognitiom, acknowledgment in the way she narrows her eyes at him. "Never 'bout choices," she says. "But those're the best kind." She reaches a hand back, and closes the door behind her more fully, and finally—
She takes another swaying step forward, sidling towards the next door over, her two hands rubbing together, frictioning away the powder formed on her skin. "I hope you talk fast. I got a girl who'll wake up soon and she'll be scared all alone, you know? Diogenes. I'm Maeve."
Choices. Illusions, all of them. Fleeting illusions. Giving choices was quite like playing chess. Very much so. And this game was rather one-sided.
No, Diogenes did not have some evil mastermind plot to get close to Maeve, sink his teeth into her flesh and leech her of all of her blood. He didn't have an axe tucked away in his pants with which he'd lop her head off. He admired her. The Sandman was either bold or crazy enough to break into multiple homes, murder than once (presumably) and flee to Staten, both a refuge and a deadly web of lowlife scum. Either way, Tom admired Maeve that she believed in something. She wanted something so badly she took measures, rather than whining about it to her BFFs in a pub late at night.
No doubt victims of her murders would disagree with Diogenes. They're a little dead, after all, thanks to Maeve. But such is life. Or death. The two worked closely together. One day you're alive, the other one you're dead. One day you're the predator, the other you're prey. Survival is a necessary skill; life is a luxury, not a gift from a higher power taken for granted. Your life must be your marionette, not the other way around.
These thoughts drift away as Maeve speaks up. Diogenes did not want things to get ugly. He really didn't. "Fast? Relatively. I sometimes stutter", he admits. Create a friendly, tranquil aura. "You'll do most of the talking, though", he sighs softly, encircling her. "I'll start with your legs. Don't worry, I'm not a pervert; I'm about as inclined to sex as a plant", he attempts to assuage her, crouching down to examine the scratches, trying to see if any of them are deep enough to pose a threat of infection. Sure, the tiniest scratch is prone to the most serious of infections, but hey, the deeper the wound, the higher the risk. "You really should get some iodine on these. But, knowing Staten… Vodka is a good enough substitute", he muses.
"But, to the point. Why did you do all that? The paralysing, the murders."
Her hands come to clasp near her chest, peering down almost delicately as he begins to inspect the smattering of scars, both old and new, on her legs. Some could do with cleaning, especially those nearest her knees, where all the bone is. A hand comes down to clench in her skirt, to left the hem out of the way but going no further to barely expose pale thighs. She rubs an ankle with her foot, teetering a little before both soles come down again.
"Maybe you just haven't gone and had good sex yet." If there's suggestion in her voice, it manifests in a drawl, and is left on the roadside. To the point, as he said. "It's been a while for me, too. Most of the time they just lie there."
A smile, now, plays out on her mouth, twists of tension to show off shining white teeth. "I need places to be. They took my home and my daughter and locked me up." Her weight flows up onto the balls of her feet, before back again, heels connecting with the wooden floor with twin dull thuds. "I don't try to kill 'em. Sometimes they just stop after they stop movin'. They just quit out."
A smirk plays out on Tom's lips in response to Maeve's reply regarding his asexuality. As amusing as it was, as much as he wanted to deliver a witty reply, he did not want to get side-tracked. He was too tired for a battle of wits, and although he admired Maeve, he still came here to know what is going on in her head, not to propose to her.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you need to reapply your powder every once in a while, right?" Diogenes straightens out, standing up behind Maeve, placing a gentle and reassuring hand on her shoulder. As young as he was, and as careless a life as he led, his hands were unblemished. If not for the wide and large palm, they'd even look feminine. "They probably OD on your anthrax", he comments, inspecting the injury Raquelle blessed her with, checking its severity. His knowledge of the human anatomy was finally put to use. "You need to stop being so disorganised. Put your powder in a measuring cup, see how much it takes to make someone slow, how much it takes to make someone paralysed but not dead… and, of course, how much it takes to kill someone. You really won't get far if you use your ability like a kid."
A sigh, and his inspection is paused. "Let's switch positions. If I were you, and you were me… If I were the one with the girl. Would you take her from me? Be honest."
Maeve's nose wrinkles as he goes to check for the head injury, in the midst of blond strands. She doesn't ask how he knows it's there, but he'll note the tension in her slightly curving spine all the same. Head wounds bleed worse than they are, though she's clearly done her best to clean it. Still, there's stiffer streaks of the dried red, and a split over the knot formed there from where the skillet made its impact.
"I use it how I like. It keeps on comin' unless they stick me with needles. They put us all in a prison, did you know? People like me and you, just for what we had that they didn't. They made us. They made White and alla them."
She shivers once, abruptly, and turns to look at him, studying dark eyes above the white cup of the mask he wears. The air around them is a little hazy from loose powder, but not enough to do anything, with or without a mask. "She ain't yours. You can get your own. I'd get my own. I did." The sentiment is jumbled, but it's spoken with quiet, edged conviction. "I've never taken 'em before, but I did. She's alive, and she's mine now."
Silence.
It lingers for a moment longer than it should.
"I am not sure if you're aware", he murmurs nonchalantly through his mask, even if hints of annoyance can be picked up, "but the first Evolved the general public saw exploded in their face in a mushroom cloud of radiation. The first Evolved didn't cure cancer. The first Evolved didn't discover another dimension where an Utopia thrived. The first Evolved didn't find the meaning of life. And first impressions are very important."
He falls silent for but a moment, looking at the disturbed woman before him. "We will be hunted for a very long time. Sure, some people will fight it. Some people will raise a flag and wreck some shit. War is pretty attractive to all the idiots, with all its pretty ideals and slogans. You get to be a badass and make a point, what's not to like, right? And then, when it's too late, the morons realise that in war, you do not make a point with your actions. You make a point with your death. The more deaths there are, the more attention it draws."
Diogenes did not want to preach too much. He also did not want things to drag on. "Now, you can be a hippie, fight for something, and die. Or you can flee, and find someone. You're a beautiful woman. A bit off the rocker, but… some men like that." He glances over his shoulder, to the closed door. "I don't know whether I can leave her with you. You have to understand; if not me, someone else will come along. Some twenty-one year old amateur found you - think professionals won't? Think they will reason with you? They'll tranq you and drag your ass back to wherever you lost your sanity. I am actually reasoning with you."
There's a steady amount of bristling, there, in the way a cat's back slowly arches and allows the fur to spike like a razor. Her fingers even hook, as if preparing herself to tear the mask of his face and maybe his eyes along with it. Breathing is shallow and makes her chest rise and fall beneath the steel structure of her shoulders, the clean line of collarbones standing out like knives against her skin and wife beater.
Reasoning. She twitches a look past him, towards the closed door, as if judging the distance it would take. "I just want them to give her back," she eventually says, her words coming out like concrete. "I'd stop if they did. Do better if they did."
She doesn't look ready to cry, as heavy as her tone is. Her eyes are clear and bright, not a touch of dampness, no tremors or wavers. "I only got one of 'em. The little one. She's not my girl. You can take her before she quits out too. She screams like a little bitch anyway."
"I'll help." Sorry, what was that? "I'll help you find her, if you are completely positive she's still alive and not trying to gloss over the fact that she's not with hope."
Diogenes has no idea why he's willing to help a serial killer. Come to think of it, he's surprised he's actually willing to help a human being. But, hey, it looks like he's decided to help Raquelle, so why stop there? He has no idea. He is utterly and completely confused, even if it does not show. No, he appears cold and emotionless, and largely he has his exhaustion to thank, which dulls his senses.
"If you think she's a bitch, you haven't spoken to her dad proper", he informs her with furrowed brows. He turns away from Maeve, and sinks into the other room once he pushes the door open. "I won't be able to lend help fully", he notes, his sensibility rising, "It's your fight. Just… Stop getting sidetracked. Stop looking for cheap knock-offs, and start looking for the real thing."
His eyes scan the room in search of Diana.
Maeve comes to stand in the doorway as he moves inside. There's an ancient bed with a sagging mattress, old but perhaps surprisingly fit for sleeping, all things considered. The windows are entirely boarded over, with slivers of sunlight managing to work their way through between the cracks of wood, and an ambient glow comes from the adjacent bathroom door, where light has more success coming in through intact glass windows.
Diana lies on the floor, her blonde hair finger-combed, and she's wrapped in the warm wool of an adult bathrobe, over her own clothing. One arm is splayed out from her body, and her wrist appears to be swollen. Her expression is blank and eyes half-hooded, dust peppering her doll-like face. She breathes, and her skin is cold and clammy to touch. The skin of her lips is cracked, not from injury, but dehydration.
It's Diogenes that's being looked at by the woman, now, the little girl no longer in her possession and so therefore irrelevant. "You're not the law, and it's the law that has her. They pried her from my hands and put me out like a light and I haven't seen her since. Her name— " Now Maeve's voice hitches, a human crack that she shrugs in reply to, a twitchy movement. "Her name's Agatha. None of the others… they're not gonna be her. Ever. Are they."
There she is. Wait, she, not they?
Yes, Maeve did speak of only one of them, but he was too tired to mark it as significant. He is about to ask about the other one, but he knows better than to interrupt the woman now. No, he looks over his shoulder, he looks at her, letting her know that he's listening. His hand is raised and cups the mask, which is then harshly pulled off, the string snapping. His lips are pressed tightly together, implying concern. "All the more reason to look for her. I'll take a look around in some orphanages; if she doesn't have an ability, they would have let her go. In theory."
Diogenes kneels at Diana's side, using his own power to brush aside the paralysing effects of Maeve's poison. However, he cannot neutralise poison itself, and thus dehydration and other possible effects would remain. Not to mention that he'd have to repeat this numerous times until the poison leaves her system. "I hate to change the subject, but— where's the other one, do you know?", he asks, turning his attention to the swollen wrist, and taking it in a gentle and caring manner. It's hard to estimate whether it's broken or not without the patient telling where and how it hurts. Even then, without an X-Ray, it's impossible to be one hundred percent positive. "I'm really not in the mood to go look for the other one, but information wouldn't hurt."
"He took her." Maeve steps aside from the doorway, plants her shoulder blades back against the wall at a lean, stares down at the stripped floor; one long arm crosses over her midsection, the other rests an elbow against that, and she fidgets by dragging her fingertips along her bottom lip, thinking. Or wandering without walking, perhaps being a more accurate description.
"The man that helped put me away the first time, he was there. I wanted the little one and he took the bigger one after putting down the daddy with one of his darts. Not me this time."
She shrugs once, then lets her gaze flick back towards Diana, who squirms a little, groggy and dry-throated. Tear stains on her face will probably be renewed, any moment now. "You gonna put her in a proper home?"
"Who, this one?" Diogenes gently places the frail hand of the child back down where it laid before. "I'll bring her back to her dad. He helped me find you. I've been looking for you for a while, now. You are interesting to me. Indulging my curiosity is probably why I'm… somewhat… eager to help you."
He dares not touch the child, knowing (or suspecting) that it will not calm the girl down, but rather shock her as a complete stranger is pretending to be her dad. He sighs softly, irked by the fact he's not strong enough to simply carry her off, and instead will have to wait for the parade of capriciousness to pass until he can explain he's taking her home.
"Maeve." He looks over to the white-haired woman once more. "Please, don't be stupid. Don't throw your life away if that can be avoided. Your daughter, if she's alive… she needs her mother. Just like none of these girls replaced yours, no mother can be as good to your Agatha as you can."
Green-blue eyes fix back on Diogenes, pulling her hand away from her face to observe it again. To stretch her fingers, make a fist, remembering the brief numbness, before rather abruptly— she jerks herself forward to take her weight off the wall once more. Diana affords the woman a darting glance before the little girl is simply squeezing her eyes shut, her breathing squeaking in and out of her throat as the hand on her still healthy wrist curls into a ball, and her knees come up to fold her legs into herself.
"You're damn right 'bout that," Maeve mutters, at a rasp, and draws in a breath, a sniff, her hands smoothing over her skirt. White powder, inevitably, comes away. Finally, she stutters out; "Make sure she don't quit out. I wasn't gonna let her, not this time. I hurt her arm."
And that's all she wrote, on that glimmer of empathy, recognition of a Bad Thing. The willowy woman disappears around a corner with a flick of her skirt, and soon, her footsteps are skree, skree, skree down the staircase too.
Diogenes offers no reply to Maeve. He is almost certain he will not find Maeve's daughter, Agatha, and that Maeve's quest will not end well for her. Murphy's Law, as humorous as many find it, is actually the depressing truth about life - if something can go wrong, it inevitably will.
The young man brings himself lower still to simply sit down on the dirty floor, ignoring the filth. A single knee is brought up to the level of his chest to offer a comfortable nest for his right forearm. His eyes focus on Diana, waiting for her to crawl out of her Abode of Fear. And then he'd explain to her the rules. Very little talking. He'd explain to her what a sentence is, if needed, and that she's entitled to only one every five minutes, unless she wants to go back to the Sandman. Yes, Diogenes isn't awfully good with kids.
A new day has dawned in Staten Island. And amongst all the mugging, all the killing, all the manipulation… A single good deed is done. A tiny ray of light in a thick forest that is clouded in darkness.