Participants:
| Scene Title | A Stroll In The Park |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Just a stroll in the park. Nothing can go wrong. No crazy jerkface is going to try and paralyse you while preaching about the impending doomsday, no Sir. |
| Date | July 29, 2009 |
Central Park has been, and remains, a key attraction in New York City, both for tourists and local residents. Though slightly smaller, approximately 100 acres at its southern end scarred by and still recovering from the explosion, the vast northern regions of the park remain intact.
An array of paths and tracks wind their way through stands of trees and swathes of grass, frequented by joggers, bikers, dog-walkers, and horsemen alike. Flowerbeds, tended gardens, and sheltered conservatories provide a wide array of colorful plants; the sheer size of the park, along with a designated wildlife sanctuary add a wide variety of fauna to the park's visitor list. Several ponds and lakes, as well as the massive Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, break up the expanses of green and growing things. There are roads, for those who prefer to drive through; numerous playgrounds for children dot the landscape.
Many are the people who come to the Park - painters, birdwatchers, musicians, and rock climbers. Others come for the shows; the New York Shakespeare Festival at the Delacorte Theater, the annual outdoor concert of the New York Philharmonic on the Great Lawn, the summer performances of the Metropolitan Opera, and many other smaller performing groups besides. They come to ice-skate on the rink, to ride on the Central Park Carousel, to view the many, many statues scattered about the park.
Some of the southern end of the park remains buried beneath rubble. Some of it still looks worn and torn, struggling to come back from the edge of destruction despite everything the crews of landscapers can do. The Wollman Rink has not been rebuilt; the Central Park Wildlife Center remains very much a work in progress, but is not wholly a loss. Someday, this portion of Central Park just might be restored fully to its prior state.
He's tired, and in a hurry to get home. Spent the afternoon crouched in a van that nominally belongs to a dry cleaner's and is in fact rigged tothe gills with surveillance equipment. The SAC is sure there's a leak in the Bureau's office, someone selling secrets to foreign nationals, specifically the Triads….and thus a particular restaurant known to be a money-laundering operation for the gangs is under watch. But now he's hurrying home, tie off, shirt open at the throat, through the twilight. Not quite jogging, but moving at that brisk pace habitual to a lifelong New Yorker.
Diogenes is similarly tired, even if for all the wrong reasons. He would most likely be at home and in his bed, continually rolling from one side to the other in a perpetual waking nightmare. Although some in his position would not like the idea of another occupying their only bed, Thomas was actually relieved, in a way - he didn't have to torture himself with attempts to fall asleep. Instead, he ventured out into the night, ignoring the curfew, sauntering into the Central Park which was actually quite empty. Serenely empty and quiet. Until he heard Felix. Sitting sprawled on the bench as though to feel at home, he lazily turns his head to look in the direction of the approaching figure. A smile slowly makes its way onto his face when he sees who it is. "A bit late for a jog, don't you think?", he'd say aloud, and it would sound much louder than it actually was, so silent it was.
"A bit late for you to be out," Fel retorts, pausing in mid-stride and nearly tripping over his own feet as a result. His tone is curious, rather than scolding, and he forebears approaching any closer, at least at the moment.
Diogenes tilts his head back and promptly wrinkles his nose. A hand raised is directed towards his neck to offer it a rub, hinting at pain. As he tries to dull the numb pain prevalent in his neck, he eyes Felix curiously. "My bed is taken", he replies in Russian. His Russian was spoken too softly for someone to be fully Russian, but it's certainly not an English accent.
Leonard's voice is accentless…..and that reply in his native tongue has him daring a step or two closer. Curiosity is an intense lure, after all. In Russian, he replies, crisply, "It's still after curfew. If you've not got a badge, you should be at home."
The man leans forward, weaving his fingers together, dropping his forearms unto his knees. With a smirk, he looks Felix over with a certain shine in his usually dull grey eyes that are perfect for conveying sadness. "Why did you come here? From Russia?", he inquires in the tongue that partially was his native tongue, as well. After all, both of his parents were Russian. "And not just some city, but New York. It's worse than what Russia was in the early 90s."
Fel's bristling a little at that. "I came because I had no choice. The KGB would've taken me, so we fled. No, it's not worse. Who -are- you? Do I know you?" he demands, his Russian equally brusque.
"You know me, in a way", replies Diogenes, continuing the bizarre Russian heart-to-heart. "What does it feel like? There's a twenty-something fledgling here, he speaks Russian and knows a fair bit about you. Perhaps the KGB isn't dead. Perhaps I'm someone who is out to get you. Or maybe I'm bait. Uncertainty is irritating, isn't it?"
"Perhaps you've read a paper or glanced at the registry," Felix returns, drily. "The KGB isn't dead, but it's current form has far more important concerns than one American cop. Gimme one reason I shouldn't take you in for breaking curfew."
The smirk that adorns Dio's lips only grows as Felix ponders aloud how the young adult could have found information about him. Again he leans back against the bench, looking up at the fed. "See? That wasn't so hard to crack", he notes before giving a reason, as asked. "Taking me in would prove to be more of a hassle than you'd like; at the end of what no doubt was a tiring day, no less. Besides, I can be a pretty useful ally", he says, giving not one but two reasons, offering both in the English language.
"I don't know. I'm a patient man, I can deal with hassles," Fel notes, drily. "And what use could you be to me, then?"
The smug grin disappears, making way for a feigned look of surprise. "To you?", Diogenes inquires in an ostensibly perplexed tone before answering his own question: "Not much, most likely. But should I be in agreement with your goals, and want to see an outcome you want to, as well, I could tip the odds in your favour. I excel at disabling people." His redundantly lengthy speech - in English - has its purpose. His eyes find that spot that is extremely vulnerable when he is around. He finds the sections of the spine responsible for hips, shins and feet. He would start slow, not wanting Felix to drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. First he would lose sensation and control of his feet, then shins… and then both of his legs would be fully unresponsive. "Superhuman speed. Quite worthless against someone who can paralyse you."
It's a horrible, horrible sensation….but Felix doesn't go for his gun, lest he provoke the other Evolved into rash and violent action. He's so good at that, after all. Fel sinks slowly to his knees, ends up slumped on his side in an awkward posture. "Stop that, please," he says, sounding irritated. "And why would you wantto work with me. You could just register, be a cop," he says, simply.
Diogenes cranes his neck, looking down at Felix from a different angle. The fact that the federal agent actually uses the word please serves as a pleasant surprise, sating the hunger for the discomfort of others that his inner sociopath possesses. The sensation of the oncoming paralysis would reverse, and Felix would find himself to be in full control of his legs once more, the feeling of his clothes' fabric returning, too. "Registering is redundant and unnecessary. Tell me, what is the difference between a registered Evolved terrorist and an unregistered Evolved terrorist? What would stop you from going rogue?" He shrugs lightly with a soft sigh. "I find myself above all the petty squabbles that occur daily in New York. Everyone's concerned with all the small wars hidden in the dark alleyways, but I am more concerned with the large picture."
"And what is the large picture?" Fel wonders, as he rises, brushes himself off. Moving very warily, and watching Diogenes as if not entirely certain what he should think about all of this.
"The large picture is that the explosion in New York City was but the first step towards a cataclysm that will be the modern day equivalent of the Biblical flood." Diogenes tips his head to the side, his eyes still set on the man in front of him. "Little makes sense in today's world. Good has intertwined with Evil, and the existence of Evolved means you no longer have to scour the black markets to find a weapon, because you are a weapon. Look at what happened when people found out nuclear weaponry. Two mighty nations raced to gather the most, and now an A-bomb is a must have for a country. We were very afraid, and now Evolved overshadow this fear. The same thing is happening with us, advanced human beings."
The Fed's expression remains intensely skeptical. "Right. And?" he prompts, voice lazy.
"And I want to make sure that we do not exterminate ourselves, but instead… just let our numbers dwindle", he offers. Diogenes rises from the bench, burying his hands in the pockets of his pants, pushing his jacket's lapels aside. "In the midst of this chaos, it is easy to lose one's direction. I'm a road sign. Or a traffic light, whichever metaphor is more to your liking."
"The numbers of Evolved? It's apparently a dominant gene. It's going to spread, it won't fade," Fel says, bluntly.
"I speak about the human race in general. Please, trying to separate Evolved and ordinary humans is almost like separating blacks from whites. We are as human as they are. Are we better? Biologically speaking, we are. But the first nuclear weapon to be set off in one of the vital cities of a majestic country was an Evolved, not a missile sent by an ordinary man." Diogenes lowers his chin and his gaze, sighing. When he looks up at Felix again, he carries on: "We are the future. We will be the outcome of said cataclysm. But the world has to be guided to that, and not self-destruction."
That, at least, makes a certain kind of sense. And Felix nods, any thought of bringing this one in apparently forgotten, at least for the moment.