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Scene Title A:dikwahna'
Synopsis Searching for Thomas Redhouse, Richard and Atticus make an unexpected discovery in upstate New York.
Date September 14, 2018

A seven hour drive from New York City to Buffalo is looking more like eight and a half minutes on foot, judging from Richard Ray’s wristwatch. That time included checking the forecast to make sure it isn't raining in Buffalo. Turns out, it is.

Summer weather is usually rainy this far north, and on the Canadian border as Buffalo is, temperate thunderstorms are a sign of summer’s conclusion and the approach of autumn. Sheets of rain hammer down over the heavily forested Buffalo outskirts, a few miles outside of the city. Here on State Highway 442 near Lancaster, a narrow single-lane dirt driveway winds into the dark canopy of a pine forest. On the narrow road, the canopy is so thick from pine branches and the storm that it feels like night, and the two figures appearing out of thin air along the dirt road are prepared for the rain, but not the dark.

With the sun in the process of setting, night is coming soon to Buffalo, and the distant lights through the woods of a home out here in the rural outskirts of Buffalo lend validity to the address information Richard has on one Thomas Redhouse.

Thomas Redhouse’s Cabin

Buffalo, NY

September 1st, 2018

7:53 pm

The cabin isn't an outstanding thing, in fact the two floor building feels much more modest in comparison to Jared Harrison’s retreat out in the mountains. Its roof is slick with rain, patchy with moss and small deadfall branches and, surrounded close by thick forest. An old, red pickup truck rests in the driveway, covered in a blue tarp tied down into the wheel weld and untouched. Beside it a battered old late 90s Toyota pickup looks nearly as forgotten, except that there's fresh tracks leading through the dirt to it, even if the New Mexico plates on it expired in 2011. There's no sign that anyone else is outside right now, though lantern lights are on inside.

”I need to consult with… an expert, in Buffalo,” Richard explains to his newest employee, tapping the location on an interactive map that gleamed in neon lines across what was normally his office window, “Given the state of things in the country I should probably bring some security, and, well—” He admits wryly, “Teleportation is a hell of a lot faster than by car, even if we have to do it in jumps.

That was the previous day, and now they’re here; the suits and ties were put away for this jaunt, and Richard wouldn’t be out of place in most of the Safe Zone now. Some worn BDUs, a bomber jacket bearing a patch from some long-defunct cargo company called Chicago Air, The rain was expected as well, so there’s a maroon poncho thrown over it all, the plastic hood shadowing his features.

Christ,” he swears as the rain crashes over them, glancing through the trees to spot the cabin — motioning that way as he starts to walk. He ducks his head in a lean closer to the other man, calling over the rain, “Try not to spook the guy, it’s not like we were able to call ahead so he doesn’t know to expect us— then again he might also be waiting for us in particular with a pot of tea on.”

He chuckles at the thought, the sound of mirth lost to the rain, “You can never tell with precogs.”

After some time spent looking at maps, satellite images, and anything else he could get on/around/near the area Atticus does some additional calculations in his head, “We’ll have to make a stop along the way, clear in the woods between here and there, other than that, shouldn’t be a big deal.” The man says about covering some nearly four hundred miles in a few minutes…and after a brief bounce in a clearing somewhere in a forest of old growth northern trees.. There they are.

Atticus had taken the time to go over all the standard issue security gear, and while tempted to go the full body armor route, unless he’s given some hint that this might be a lot more dangerous than it sounds so far..he’ll stick with his FBI HRT hold over ‘plain clothes’ vest, a pistol he’s familiar with, and his usual ‘every day carry’ mismash of gear ( zip ties, hand cuffs, more boy-scout foo ). Tactical pants, a close fitting UnderArmor t-shirt in black, and a loose city digital camo patterned zip-front hoodie are his choice in clothing.

The rain is met with the studied equanimity of a man used to spending days out in the foul weather. He doesn’t enjoy it, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide from it either..he’s going to get wet, no use trying to avoid it.

“How well do you know him? Would probably be best if I lead the way, hmm? Or is he the ‘shoot first, ask the corpse questions’ type?” Atticus asks as they start their approach, and unless he sees any movement at or around the cabin he’ll let Richard lead on - it’s not like he can’t be in front of him in the blink of an eye..maybe less.

“Never met the man,” Richard admits casually, leading the way towards the cabin to knock upon the door if he isn’t challenged on the way, “He’s a painter.”

Nothing changes between the dirt driveway to the wooden steps leading up to the front porch. Out of the rain, Atticus and Richard can hear the storm hammering on the hardwood above them. The cabin is old, post and timber design, and just above where Richard knocks hangs a hand-carved wooden sign on a hemp rope that reads Home Spirit and has a wood-burned image of an American Southwest desert scene, with plateaus and pillar rocks.

At the knock there's a clatter inside the cabin, something falling a short distance, and then a few scuffing footsteps approaching the door. A metal latch lock slides with a noisy clack behind the door, and when it opens—



Sparrow Redhouse stands on the other side of the door. It's been years since Richard last saw Sparrow, when Norman White was an extant threat. The dark-haired woman has grown up since they last saw one-another, and standing as she is with—

— oh, she has a gun.

Realizing she’s clutching a pistol like a crucifix, Sparrow relents and lowers her handgun almost immediately, looking distinctly apologetic at the affront.

At the sight of the woman on the other side of the door, a broad smile blossoms across Richard’s face, hands spreading to either side in a rustling of maroon plastic. “There’s a face that I haven’t seen in a lifetime,” he greets, “Sparrow, it’s good to…”

Oh, she has a gun.

When she lowers it, he breathes out a chuckle of relief and amusement both, completing his thought, “…good to see you. Glad you survived the past few years’ little disagreement.”

The hood of the poncho’s pushed back, and he gives a little shake to shed some of the water, “You mind if we come in? There’s a little bit of rain going on out here.”

There is a moment as the gun comes into view that Atticus tenses, the man generally one of those to move with a more loose limbed, if powerful, gait. Bright blue eyes flicker over Sparrow, the gun, try and look past the woman in the door to see if there’s enough room behind her to get there if needs be.

Just as he’s about to move..the gun’s lowered, the two clearly recognizing each other, and Atticus relaxes just a bit, though he still moves up to stand beside Richard at a spot that he can either push his protectee out of the way..or tackle Sparrow, whichever seems most expedient.

“So..you know her, but not the guy we’re here to see..and she’s here? I’m just luvin’ this already.” The clearly Australian near-giant says with a good humored tone, and mostly under his breath.

Richard’s joke lands flat, and some of the cheer drains from Sparrow’s expression. She braces in the doorway, hesitating from what was about to be an invitation inside. She eyes Atticus, slowly stuffing the gun in the back of her pants. It's only now that Richard notices most everything in the cabin behind her is covered in dust and throw covers.

“What’re you here for, Richard?” Sparrow's coal black eyes flick from Richard to Atticus and back again. “Did he leave you something?”

The smile fades as hers does, and Richard holds his hands up a bit. “Sorry,” he says more softly, regret in his tone, “I meant it honestly, I’ve… lost too many people in the past few years.” A twitch of an almost smile, rueful, “Liz always told me I was too fast to cover up pain with a joke.”

One of those hands raises in a reassuring motion towards Atticus, “It’s fine, you can relax— “ Back to her, and he finally notices the covers over everything, her words sink in. “Thomas— oh. Sparrow. Shit. I’m so sorry.” Genuine sympathy, as he realizes what must have happened, a grimace crossing his features as he realizes just how much in poor taste his joke was.

There is a brief flash of something that may be confusion in Atticus' eyes, but then it's gone and the man nods just slightly as the situation de-escalates and Richard seems to know what's going on..or at least who Sparrow is.

"Relaxing isn't part of my job, Richard. I'll do that when I get you back and settled at home. Till then.. I'm going to go on being professionally paranoid and not at all relaxed." Atticus says in a dry tone even as he keeps his head on a swivel and looking about as the conversation progresses.

Sparrow’s expression is hard to read, even for Richard. She turns dark eyes up to Atticus, lips pressed together in a thin line, and then walks back into the cabin with clunking bootfalls. “He isn't dead,” Sparrow clarifies an awkwardly long period of time late, “or… at least I dont know if he is.”

Inside, the cabin is a picture of dated, rustic decor. A rough cloth fabric sofa with a throw quilt on its back is aligned just to the right of the door, a rocking recliner adjacent to it and a natural wood coffee table stacked with old, dusty magazines in the crook between couch and chair. An old cathode-tube television on a floor stand sets across from the sofa near an unlit fireplace. To the let from the door is an open dining room with a round table surrounded by five high-backed chairs. Newspapers and mail cover the table. Beyond is a small kitchenette and a pot bellied stove — also covered with mail and newspapers.

“My dad disappeared, round about three years ago. He stopped sending letters to my mom, so I assumed the worst.” Sparrow walks straight ahead from the door, where a winding staircase leads up to a loft, and the base of the stairs is flanked by two doors, one leading into a bathroom and the other a gallery full of cloth-covered canvases.

“I drove up here hoping t’figure our what happened, but it turns out that wasn't really in the cards.” Resting her hands on her hips, Sparrow looks back at Richard and Atticus. “All his stuff is here except some missing clothes and money. It looks like he left in a hurry, but he didn't tell anyone where he'd be.”

Sighing, Sparrow’s shoulders slack. “I'd hoped he might have left you a message or something. You seemed the type to be up in his business.” Looking back to Richard, Sparrow’s tense posture appears again.

“For what it's worth,” Sparrow says awkwardly, “I'm sorry for running out on you back when. I… wasn't ready for any of that shit.”

As the man’s said to be missing rather than dead, Richard’s brow furrows in bemusement at the man’s daughter. He takes the time to kick the mud off his boots and shed the wet poncho, crumpling the maroon material under one arm as he follows her in.

“I don’t blame you one bit, there’s— no need to apologize,” he admits with a shake of his head, “It was all a shit show in the end, but we stopped him. Sometimes I wonder if we’d be better off without Staten Island, but, you know…”

He brings one shoulder up in a shrug, “All we can do is what we think’s right in the end, after all.”

“God knows enough people leave me messages, but Thomas wasn’t one,” he admits, “Never met him, I was— hoping to. Maybe he painted something that convinced him he had to leave in a hurry? The war was over by then, but there’re still anti-evo forces out there, and— some people who’d love to get their hands on a precognitive.”

“Three years, though… that’s a long time to be out of touch,” he admits, looking to her with shared concern.

Atticus meets Sparrow's gaze and returns it calmly, offering the woman a slight nod in greeting and then takes just a moment to peer into the cabin before Richard enters to get a quick look around before ducking back out of the way to allow his boss through.

He takes a moment to get the mud off his boots and drip dry a bit more, doffing his hat allow water to drip from it onto the porch for a few moments before he steps inside as well, closing the door behind him.

“Maybe,” is Sparrow’s catch-all answer to everything. As she wanders through the house a few paces from Richard and Atticus, she seems lost. As little later, she looks back to the two of them. “Figured that might be who you two were. Lot of bigot crazies out in the Dead Zone. Not used to civilization.” She smirks. “Such as it is.”

Her wandering takes Sparrow over to the door to what must have been Thomas’ studio. “If you think anything he painted could be helpful, help yourself. I took a look in there but just wound up getting cross-eyed. He did some beautiful pieces about Zuni folklore, though,” and she motions to a stack by the door covered by a canvas. “I'm going to take those home with me, but you're free to look at them. Dad was — is — ” She struggles with that “a gifted artist. He just… he had his demons.”

“He painted me, once,” Richard says, although to be fair the picture was a brain in a jar and probably wouldn’t be recognized to anyone who wasn’t involved with the whole situation as him. Technically it wasn’t him at all. He’s lived a strange life.

“You’re his family, I wouldn’t think of taking anything from you here, especially if— “ If they’re all she ends up remembering him by. “Well. I’d like to take a look, at least, thank you. And… don’t we all.”

His gaze drifts over the stack by the door, repeating quietly, “Don’t we all.”

"Some more than others, I'd guess, but sure as the sun'll fuckin' rise in the morning." Atticus says, more than a bit sotto-voce, from his place near the door. He seems more than content to remain still and out of the way.

His eyes, though, they never stop moving, occasionally he shifts his weight ever so slightly and alters the angle of his view around the room..but not much more than that.

“You're both welcome to look,” Sparrow notes as she steps in to the art studio, motioning to the Zuni cultural paintings covered by a drop cloth. “You want to see those ones just let me know. Otherwise…” Sparrow lets the room talk for itself. Aside from an empty easel pushed into one corner, the square room is decorated with a handful of full canvas paintings, mounted on the wall without frames. There's no titles or indications of if the paintings have any sort of proper names.

All told, there's eight paintings on the wall of the studio, not counting the coveted stack.

The first painting that catches the eye is simply a black canvas. Every square inch of it has been covered in black paint, and it is a familiar sight to Richard. In the months leading up to November 8th numerous precognitives were seeing nothing but darkness past that date. The reason for this was never made abundantly clear.

Next to it is a landscape-oriented painting of the skyline of Manhattan as framed in by the concrete walls of the Manhattan Exclusion Zone. In the background, the broken remnants of the Statue of Liberty are visible.

On another wall there is a painting with less obvious explanation. Here, there is a grassy field painted against a sky heavily laden with impending storm clouds. There are bones poking up through the grass, surrounded by a ring of nine poppies. Incidentally, each poppy is slightly different from the next in the number and arrangement of their petals.

Another painting is strikingly familiar to Richard and unmistakably depicts Eve Mas in black and white, hair wild and unkempt, and below her a sketchy black depiction of some sort of many-fanged beast’s face. On its brow is a familiar half-helix symbol.

Next to that is a painting of what Atticus recognizes as the exterior of the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. The building is engulfed in flames and surrounded by rubble and demolished vehicles. Atticus hasn't seen Langley in a while, but based on the stories this could easily be depicting the devastation of Virginia during the civil war.

Another painting on the adjacent wall shows an unfamiliar blonde woman maybe in her 20s or 30s with curly hair at chin length dressed in a white lab coat and dark blue clothes. She's holding a terra cotta pot in the air over her head and pouring water from it that is splashing at her feet. The water is landing in a collection of human skeletal remains and rivulets of water are spreading out from between the ribs.

The second to last painting depicts a crumbling skyscraper silhouette by a night sky. Snow dapples the ground around the building and gusts in flurries in the air. Above the building, a corkscrew spiral aurora burns bright green in the sky. In spite of that, the buildings look reminiscent of ruins in Midtown Manhattan, rather than somewhere that normally sees auroras.

The final painting is not finished, but the pencil sketch shows enough of the overall composition. It depicts a woman that looks strikingly like Eve Mas laid out on her back on the ground with a shiny pool of blood spilling out from all around her. Standing over her corpse is a figure cast entirely in silhouette except for bright gold irises.

“This is all he had left,” Sparrow says with a look over her shoulder to the two. “I don't know what he did with his older stuff. Might've sold it. None of this told me where he went, though…”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing them too— I can appreciate art as art too,” Richard allows in rueful tones. He stole enough of it once upon a time, after all.

He wasn’t here for the aesthetic though.

He brings out his phone as he steps into the studio, pausing before each painting in turn to take a careful picture of them. The black painting, for all its opacity, gets a long look from him. “These always bothered me,” he mutters, glancing back to Atticus before he steps on to the next.

“They all painted these as we got up to that day,” he explains, “Every precognitive, they just saw… black. I can only imagine it relates to what happened that day, at Mount Nazahat. God knows the time-space continuum took a hell of a kick in the nuts.”

Sometimes, the CEO of Raytech Industries mentions existentially terrifying things in the same tone of breath someone might talk about a pancake breakfast.

“Some of these are from the war, it looks like. Makes sense, there was a lot going on them,” he comments, thinking aloud, “These two… a lot of imagery here, a lot of metaphor. I’ll have to go over them later— and then we’ve got Eve.” A heavy sigh, the sound of someone who’s long learned to just accept that some things are inevitable despite how irritating they may be, “I’ll have to talk to her about this - what the hell have you gotten into, girl?”

It’s the second to last painting that he comes back to finally, stopping in front of it and just looking at it for a few moments. “This one— this one I know what it’s showing,” he murmurs, raising a hand as if to touch the painting itself, to trace the path of the aurora, “Soon.”

Taking a moment to look over the artwork, as Richard does, Atticus pauses at various points but it's clear that the finer points of art appreciation aren't something that is within his grasp. That said, the scene that apparently touches on the CIA and its environs causes him to pause and look at it for a bit longer than the others.

He doesn't say anything, though, not for the moment at least. Content to be the bodyguard in the background from all appearances.

Sparrow regards the art with an uneven stare, part wistful and part winsome. After a moment she just nods, far belated to any real conversational beat, and then looks up to Atticus. “You remind me of a dog I had when I was a kid,” seems a little tongue-in-cheek. “My uncle adopted him. Everyone in town thought he was a little slow. You know, wasn't as playful as other dogs. Said it was because he was old…”

As she talks, Sparrow moves across the room and uncovers the Zuni artwork that Thomas apparently did, painting in vastly different style to his usual work. More abstract, more colorful and geometric. “What they didn't realize is that he was plenty playful at home. But when he was out in public he was on duty. Come to find out he was an ex K-9 unit,” Sparrow says as she hoists the five paintings up on a table so they can be viewed more easily. “He wasn't slow, he was diligent.

Turning her attention to Richard, Sparrow shows off the first piece. The canvas is mostly beige colored, and there's a highly stylized black and red snake with four wings making an S shape in the middle of the canvas. “That's Kolowisi,” Sparrow explains. “Guardian of water. Most tribes have some form of history for a similar serpent. Awanyu, Misi-kinepikw, Unktehi,” she waves a hand in the air, “different names. All the same snake.”

In its curving shape, with two rings right and two wings left, it almost looks like half of a double helix.

“I could go on but, like I said this stuff’s just…” Sparrow motions to the stack, “it's just cultural stuff.” She downplays the importance to herself.

The phone’s dropped to Richard’s side as he steps over to see the other paintings, waiting for her to set them up to be viewed. “That sounds like most security professionals I know,” he admits with a bit of good humor, glancing to Atticus and then back to the other paintings being set up, “Given how often people try and kill me, diligence is a good…”

As the first painting’s shown off, the words trail off for a moment. Then he clears his throat, “…trait.”

The explanations heard, and he looks from the painting to her, “Guardian of Water… what exactly does that mean?” It’s not just placation, either, there’s genuine interest in his tone. Maybe more than just interest.

He takes a picture of this one too.

"I probably qualify as old, depending the viewpoint, I reckon." Atticus replies with a bit of a smile, one that seems more hinted at than actually expressed - but it's enough to get the point across. "I've had a few dogs like that, we always did get along well." A nod in Richard's direction, "From what I've seen, heard, and what he's doin'.. I imagine I'm always gonna have my hands full. I don't like losing, though, and given he'd not likely put up with the army of other guys like me that would really be best for keepin him in some sort of modicum of safety, well.. I'll just have to see about makin' him a fast enough a movin' target as to make him hard to hit."

Another glance around, from the paintings seen before, to the more recent that Sparrow's setting out now, "Seems like he had a lot on his mind he wanted to get out…or mebbe needed to get out."

Sparrow regards Atticus with a wry smile, seeming to approve of his outlook on things in her own way. "Well," Sparrow directs her attention to Richard. "Kolowisi is a water serpent, and from the stories Laughing Coyote told me when I was younger, sort of an… in-between god. One who is difficult to understand, feared and respected."

She traces a finger down the edge of the painting. "Its home is in springs, ponds, rivers… all the oceans, too. The story goes that all rivers are connected underground." She looks at the wave shape. "Kolowisi is the god that brings torrential rains and floods.” Dark eyes come back up to Richard. "You're actually interested in this? I haven't really… thought too much about it in a long time."

“Uh,” Sparrow mumbles, looking for a good painting to show next. The one she decides on depicts a vibrant eclipse of gold leaf paint on a field of black. On either side of the eclipse are two golden humanoid silhouettes with their arms raised over their heads. The entire painting is highly stylized with sharp lines and delicate curves, traditional in the Zuni art style. "This is some of dad's favorite stuff. It's Awonawilona," she points at the sun, "and the Ahayu'da."

Looking up to Richard, Sparrow flashes a brief smile and looks back to the painting. "Awonawilona is the sun, creator of all things. The Ahayu'da are the warrior twins of the creator, heroes who helped the first people defend themselves and rise up from the great flood." That painting is slowly moved aside to sit next to the first one.

The third painting is of a stylized human painted in black on a beige canvas, with a tall shield in one hand and a sharp spear in the other. His body is depicted with diamond-pattern whorls swirling through his silhouette. "That's Ahaiyuta, one of the warrior heroes." Then a fourth painting on black, with a beige humanoid figure in matching stance facing the opposite direction with the same whorl pattern in the silhouette, colors inverted. "His brother Matsailema."

Then finally, Sparrow sets down a small painting depicting a desert landscape under a full moon. Many brightly colored figures with elaborate masks, head ornamentation, and ceremonial clothing are depicted in striking dance in the moonlight. "Shalako, its a… celebration, right around the first day of winter. Those," she motions to the figures, "are ceremonial Kachina dancers."

"The Kachina are living spirits that inhabit all things. Even time and space." Sparrow squares the painting with the others and looks up to Richard. "Some folks back home think people like us," and by that she means herself and Richard at least; she's not as well-informed about current events, "were what inspired the Kachina." She wrinkles her nose. "I don't like that, though. I think the Kachina are the Kachina and we're us."

Looking back to the paintings, Sparrow shrugs and crosses her arms. "My mother would want these to go back home. Even if dad doesn't turn up. She'd care that what really mattered to him was back where he was… happiest." At that, Sparrow looks distant, lost in a dark thought.

“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in all my mis-spent years, Sparrow…” At last the phone, loaded with pictures, is slid away; Richard’s listened with rapt attention as she spoke, although he kept certain reactions so very carefully hidden. “…it’s that stories have power, and you should never forget the past. Thank you for telling me about them.”

His gaze slides back to the paintings, lingering on the eclipse, “You said that was the sun, but it’s the moon, too — does the moon have a name, a role in all of this? Is there a special significance to the eclipse itself?”

He gestures slightly to the paintings, offering to Atticus’s observation, “I’d say he did, and he said… everything that needed to be said.” A smile back to Sparrow, “And they should, go home I mean. Seems like that’s where they belong. Hell, if things ever calm down, maybe I can come out and visit.”

Things will probably never calm down again. He had his time to rest.

Listening through Sparrow's discussion on the various pieces of art, Atticus clearly is interested enough to split his attention, but not so much so as to either allow himself to be too distracted, or to get involved in any particular discussion about the objects.

Nodding to Richard at the last, he says, "It sure seems like it. I don't know fu..err, much about art, or American Indians of any sort , their lore.. But the passion and the need sure does seem to scream out to be heard here."

A pause, a glance about, then a look at Sparrow, "Time comes these need moving, I can probably help out. Get word to me through Richard if you think you'd like that help."

Raising one brow, Sparrow looks Atticus up and down. “If you're gonna try and sell my on how big your truck is, I’ve got one.” Though there's a side-eye that implies she's as least peripherally aware there may be more than meets the eye there. But she doesn't press immediately, instead, Sparrow looks to Richard with a mild shrug.

“Sure. The moon’s important, eclipses are when Coyote and Rabbit work together and steal the sun. Honestly, I could go on for a while about the folklore. But it's nothing you couldn't pick up in a library.” She raises one shoulder higher than the other, sidestepping the table the paintings are on. “Assuming there's still libraries anywhere?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t drive up here,” Richard quips, slanting a look to Atticus and then back to Sparrow, “Although if you want to compare the size of your trucks…”

He can’t help but grin, then, a hint of that old roguish humor of his coming back, “And— yeah, fair enough. There are still a few, I know of one at least, but… well. I should pick up some books, I guess.” His gaze lingers on that painting of the sun, and then the twins… and he shakes his head, “And do some more digging of my own. Is there anything you need out here, Sparrow?”

He looks to the woman, brows upraised in query.

"Truck comparisons? Is that what that is now?" Atticus says, dry and deadpan. "I knew all you blokes were fu..dammit, different, but that's new…and I been here a bit."

A pause, a flash of a roguish grin, then adds, "I've been known to make miles seem to pass in the blink of an eye. "

And with that the generally reserved big blond man goes back to doing his diligent guard dog impression, quite, observant..and ready.

Covering up the paintings again, Sparrow checks to make sure they're securely bundled in loose canvas and picks them up, bringing them over to set beside the front door. “I appreciate the offer,” she says with an understanding tone, “but I'm not really allowed to bring outsiders back to…” She looks over to Richard, then Atticus. “To home.”

Dusting off her hands, the terrakinetic rests her hands on her hips and gives the two one more look. “Besides, I've got some stops I want to make along the way. Old acquaintances to see, probably in a few weeks when I start headed back.” She looks around the house again, exhaling a sigh and raking fingers through her dark hair.

“I dunno where dad went, but…” Sparrow manages a weary smile. “I hope he finds whatever peace he's looking for. Wherever he is.”

Richard spreads his hands at her words, replying simply, “Fair enough.”

His hands drop back down to his sides, and he looks around as well, “Well… I’ll keep an eye and an ear out for him, maybe something will turn up. I hope it does. And, I might not be able to visit you all, but— “ A smile crooks to his lips, “If you’re ever in the Safe Zone, come on by Raytech.”

Then he’s giving Atticus an amused look, “You can swear you know. I’m not going to ground you.”

Atticus nods in complete understanding at Sparrow's reluctance to give away where 'home' is, doesn't seem at all put off by the demurral, "Like I said, reach out if you want, if not..no worries."

A pause, then he return Richard's amused look with a calm and even one of his own, replying with just the barest hint of devilish smirk at the corners of his lip. "Of course I can. I'm as close to what you all'd know as a US Marine as you can get, an Aussie, and an 'Operator'. I can peel the paint of the house if I wanted. Doesn't mean I should."

“You two’re cute,” is Sparrow’s wry response, “in like… the way an elderly couple is?” Cracking a smile, Sparrow moves to the front door and slowly brings it open, allowing in the crisp pine smell of the rainy forest outside. “If I wind up New York way, I'll look you up. Hopefully it won't be because there's a man about to try and destroy the city.”

Sparrow pauses, brows furrowed, and looks from the door to Richard and Atticus. There's a moment of recognition there and she laughs to herself at the superfluous gesture. “I suppose when you can get from point A to point Z without needing the rest of the alphabet in between… a door’s kind of unnecessary, isn't it?”

Slowly, she shuts the door and mildly laughs, running a hand through her hair. “Door or no,” comes with an incline of her head toward Atticus. “I hope you get home safe.”

A:dikwahna’.” She says in Shiwi.

Or, go carefully.

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