A Lucky Streak


daphne_icon.gif edgar_icon.gif

Scene Title A Lucky Streak
Synopsis Daphne has something that Edgar wants and he's not above shaking things up a little to get it.
Date September 13, 2010

Fresh Kills Harbor

Situated at one end of the Arthur Kill, this small harbor has clearly seen days of better and more frequent use. Though it's little more than a network formed by a few creaky docks and causeways, it's still more than suitable to tie up for those who have business on the Island. Invariably, at least one of the ports is taken up by a houseboat covered in seagull shit. A thick, greenish layer of bilge scum floats on top of the water and clings to the hull of every passing vessel. Welcome to Staten Island. If you have baggage or cargo to unload, there are usually a few layabouts at the Angry Pelican, which is just a short walk away. Just be sure to ask for a clean glass and keep one hand on your wallet at all times.

Cell phones are handy things. They can be used for sending and receiving text messages or calls. They can be used as cameras or internet browsers. They can be used to play Bejeweled or Scrabble when bored sitting at the doctor's office.

Their alarm clocks can be used to fake a call.

The vibration that sent Daphne reaching for her cell phone just seconds before was not, in fact, a call, but just an alarm, set an hour earlier, to give Daphne an out if she felt the need to get away from the party. Not that the speedster doesn't like Melissa, but Daphne's never had a large group of friends, choosing to spend most of her time on her own now that she can roam the world at will — and she's just not that comfortable with that many people. Especially strangers. In suits. Like Peter Petrelli's friends. And Peter, while not in a suit, reminds her too much of a night she'd rather leave far, far behind her, figuratively speaking.

Melissa's little green house isnt far, far behind, however, before Daphne stops down by the docks, staring across the water at Manhattan to the north and Brooklyn to the east. She can cross the water easily, but she hasn't decided which way to go. Her inner compass points west, away from here. She heaves a sigh, and pulls out the phone again, thumb beginning to push down buttons to send a text.

Not meaning to actually follow Daphne, Edgar comes up on her rather quickly after she's stopped. He was really just trying to get away from Ling before she stuffed the cupcake in his face. Seeing the other speedster loitering on the docks, though, the urge to talk to her is an irrisistable temptation.

He skids to a stop about ten feet behind her, the sound of the rolling gravel gives her more than enough warning that he's there. Bringing one hand up, he rubs it against the back of his neck and scratches at his hairline. "Uhm… Sorry, din't mean teh follow you'er nothin' you jus' gave me a good excuse to ge' out." For a large man, he can do sheepish fairly well.

The scraping of gravel has Daphne turning swiftly, on her toes and ready to fly across the water if there's any danger. Her brows knit a little — not following her? Likely story. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing a bit as she looks up at him, appraising him.

"Yeah, backyards tend to feel small when you can cross them in a split second," she says, slipping the phone into her pocket. "How d'you know Melissa? You got a name?" she asks, jutting her chin upward at him as she squints at him critically, lips pursed to one side.

"Ev'rythin' seems small when you can cross i' in a split secon'." Edgar retorts, though his words aren't meant in sarcasm or even intoned with any malice. It's just a fact to him. In answer to her question, he shrugs once and stares at her for a moment. Lie? Tell the truth? If she's a friend of Melissa's she'll find out sooner or later, likely sooner. "She ask'd me to move in wi'er after I applied for a job."

Beyond that, Edgar has no idea. There was something about Messiah but he really wasn't paying too much attention to the conversation. Mostly just agreeing. "Uhm… Edgar, m'name's Edgar. You?" His question of introduction is accompanied with a jerky upnod of his head.

One of Daphne's brows, darker than that shock of white-blond hair that falls in front of it, arches as Edgar tells her Melissa asked him to move in with her — did she miss something in her short trip to California, or what? She smirks a bit, about to make some snarky comment, no doubt, before suddenly he's saying his name, and it's one she knows.

"Wait!" she demands, pointing her finger at him like she's commanding a dog. Sit, Ubu, sit! "You're Edgar? There's some blond lady looking for you. Oh, hell, what was her name…" Daphne hits her forehead and then runs a hand back over her head, fingers spidering into a grip of the dreadlocks as if tugging her own hair will help shake loose the cobwebs. "L something. La… Lily… no…" She frowns, the name not coming to her. It was a long time ago, now.

"Shoot, I can't remember. She worked in some tattoo shop, she told me the name of it too, something Ink." Yes, that's useful, Daphne.

"Lydia…" The man fills in with a shocked whisper. He's looking at the ground, unable to think his breathing going a little shallow as all of the air in his body escapes at once, leaving him woozy and light headed. He blinks a few times, it's been years with no news, none. His head tilts back as he looks up at the sky, then down at the ground. For any that know the signs, it's possible that the man is about to faint. But he doesn't.

There's no wind, no whistle, no blur to speak of, but suddenly Edgar is on the tiny blonde like a cat on a mouse. His strong hands gripping her around each of her biceps as he gives her a jolting shake, then another. "Lydia! Where is she?! She's lookin' for me? You're sure?!" There's a rather wild look in his eyes, haunted, afraid, excited… And tears. Unbidden tears are forming along the lower lids, he's a man who's been alone and in pain a little too long.

"Lydia— that's it!" Daphne says, and suddenly she's being shaken; her brows knit together, and from the way her face screws up and mouth opens, it's obvious she's preparing to lambast him for putting his hands on her person. But then she sees the tears. She stops struggling against his hands and lets him shake her.

"I saw her in July — it would have been… a few days after Bastille Day," Daphne recounts, thinking back to where she was and why. "She saw me running through Central Park and she yelled hey, like she knew me, so I stopped, and she was all sad that I wasn't … well, you, apparently." The words come out fast, though not too fast for someone like him to process. "She said you were family and that she was looking for you, so I said I'd keep an eye out for you. The last guy I thought might be wasn't, so I didn't even think to ask if you were — I mean, what are the odds, and apparently speedsters are a dime a dozen." Just a little self pity and bitterness on that note accompanies the words.

"She said she was working at a tattoo parlor — hold on, let me think," Daphne says, shifting a little to extricate herself from his grip. "It was something Ink — I mean, if you look up tattoo parlors in New York, how many can there be?"

That gives her an idea, and she pulls out that very useful cell phone once more, thumb scrolling around before typing in the keywords that will bring the pertinent information up on the device's browser.

"Tattoo parlor… you mean.." Whatever hold he had on the other speedster has been shrugged off, leaving his arms still oup in the air. He's too stunned to lower them until he hears the words tattoo parlor, then he's scrambling for his wallet.

Rifling a battered black canvas thing from his pocket, he reefs it open with a sharp crack of velcro and his fingers quickly liberate an old black and white advertisement. It's wrinkled, torn at the edges, weathered almost beyond recognition. The picture displayed is of a woman's back, her golden hair laid down over her shoulder and out of sight in front. The name of the place still rather clear on the bottom, 'Just Ink'.

"This place? Just Ink? Is this here in New York?" His tone is breathless, hurried, and shaky. The wild expression on his face diminishing into one of hope. "I— I'm sorry fer grabbin' you like tha'… I jus', I ain' seen 'er in so long.."

She glances at the ad, and nods. "That's it — Just Ink, that's what she said," Daphne nods. "Don't worry about it — I mean, obviously you and her, whatever you had, it's important, so I get it. I'm not hurt. I'm not fragile." This last is said a little defensively, but then she glances down at her cell phone.

"Here — here's the address. It's in Greenwich Village. You know your way around?" she says, turning her phone so that he can see the tiny font with the information listed on the yelp.com website. "There's a phone number, too."

Edgar's eyes pour over the tiny text for a few minutes, his lips moving at impossible speeds as he silently repeats the information to himself over and over to commit it to memory. Then he draws a deep breath and lets it out in a very shaky huff. There's still dark spots wandering into his vision every once in a while. Lydia, and she's so close.

He's trembling as he looks at Daphne again, caught somewhere between ecstatic and terror. He carefully folds the little bit of paper away and tucks his wallet into his pocket. Turning a pleading expression to Daphne, he holds his hands out palms up at his sides. "'Ow do I look? Do yeh think she'll.. Do yeh think she'll be 'apy teh see me? As 'appy as I'll be teh see 'er?"

Looking up at him critically, Daphne tilts her head, narrowing her eyes, and then grins. "She'll be happy to see you. She was sad when I wasn't you — though she did say you wouldn't wear as bright of clothes, and I donno, that's really really red, but maybe she'll like it? She seemed like a colorful kinda lady. I'd guess she'd like the color," Daphne says thoughtfully.

"Remember it's late — she might not be there right now. But just in case — you know, maybe pick up something she'd like. Flowers or something, you know? Girls like that kinda thing, I hear." She reaches up to straighten his collar a little, then brushes a hand over his shoulder to displace some invisible dust.

"Go get 'er, tiger," the pixyish blond says, smirking as she stands back. "By the way, I'm Daphne."

A smile grows on his face as the little blonde pixie describes the painted lady. "She is.. she's the mos' colorful woman on the planet. The most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on. She loves red.. orange.. even yellow. All the colors of fire, I 'ate fire bu' it looks wonderful on 'er." Edgar gets a rather dreamy look as he talks about Lydia, spilling things that he's never told anyone else. But the little blond in front of him is something of a kindred spirit.

Once again Daphne's caught up by the other speedster. This time, instead of a grip of death, she's whirled around in a high speed hug. "Thank you Daphne," His rapid blinks do nothing to mask the emotion that's overwhelming him. "I owe you… I owe you my 'appiness an' my life." In a blur of motion, he's gone. Not in the direction of the little green house, but for Greenwich Village.

The breath spun out of her, Daphne finds that being whirled at high speed by someone other than herself is a bit disorienting, getting an unexpected taste of her own medicine. She laughs, however, and by the time she's caught her breath to reply, her "Good luck" is lost on the wind of Edgar's wake. Hopefully he finds what he seeks.

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