Participants:
And NPC by Brooklyn
| Scene Title | A Tiny Prick |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Cheating the Registry goes horribly wrong. Or terribly right, depending how you look at it. |
| Date | August 30, 2010 |
Who run it?
Black sunglasses, black suit, black sedan, black tinted windows, Vincent's in the driver's seat with a heavy up front and another bobbing his head in time with the bass pounding ripples into the rearview mirror. Three white men in variably expensive suits and a sound system that's not wholly unnecessary so much as it is excessive.
You know, you actin' like you don't know
I tear the club up fo' sho'
This flow is gon' bring more dough
"Could you maybe not point that at the ceiling?" Vincent is saying, voice pitched nasal under the music when he braces a scarred hand across the wheel to twist back at a stop light, where Heavy #2 has his gun out and is also — you know. Raising the roof with it or. Whatever. "…If you tuck it in your pants I'm going to make you stay in the car." Static blasts from a (less elaborate) unit in his ear and he faces forward again, stereo volume nicked down in an automatic twitch.
"Sorry," he says, "reception's gone all to shit. She's in?" And so on. The light turns green.
New Jersey, Lakewood Police Station
It's an hour and a half's drive out of New York City, and that's if you're willing to get through the irradiated parts. With sundown beginning to set in, Delia will be cutting it close to curfew by the time she's heading home, especially when the wait was longer than expected, a room of chairs lining pallid walls while laminated public service advertisements greasily stared down at her, a scent of smoke in the air. The decline of this side of New Jersey is seen in these details, aftershocks of the Bomb of 2006.
Known to her by name and cellphone number alone, Officer Tam Finnley in person seems a distant, disinterested individual. Bad teeth and thinning hair chopped around the ears, wearing his Lakewood Police uniform like he could sink into it, a gangly, Gollumesque man in his forties. John Logan did not send her to a bleeding heart sympathetic — he sent her to a criminal, in it for the money. Considering the former pimp's connections, this might not be so shocking.
This one's probably not even Evolved. The room is small, clean but old, the entire station seeming the right kind of rundown that puts one into the mind of a bad reputation. Bare, with a camera that doesn't appear to be functioning rigged up in the corner of the room, something covered in a sheet that could be a projector or some other kind of testing equipment and shoved off, forgotten, into a corner. The thin door leaks through the sound of the rest of the Lakewood station, but remains closed if unlocked.
"Sorry about the delay," he's saying, getting comfortable in the chair opposite her. "I can give you an escort back home if you don't have a place to go. What time is it? Eh," is a dismissive syllable as he checks his wrist watch, before she can take his offer or turn it down, "you'll be fine.
"Let's get started. Did you— " His head tilts a little, bright eyes meeting her's before he's looking down at the paperwork he's set up. An SLC test kit sits at his elbow, ignored for now. "You bring everything you need? I need photograph, ID, and everything else a non like yourself requires." He smiles with his misaligned teeth.
Pulling a wallet out of her purse, Delia plucks out a drivers license, and a paper lunchbag. She's really new to this sort of thing and money in paper bags seems to be the way to go in movies, so that's what she did. The man is graced with a rather weak smile in return as she pushes the two items across the desk toward him. The money? It's wrapped up in a sandwich baggie, along with an apple and a little juice box. John Logan wasn't far off the mark when he guessed that she didn't do this very often.
Looking around the dilapidated room, she gulps audibly and breathes out a long breath in hopes of calming her trembling nerves. "Uhm… how often is this done? I mean… uhm… Do you co— " No, that sounds like a pick up line and she's erally not looking to pick this man up.
In return, a couple of paperclipped pages are pushes across to her, a pen on top for her to fill out her details and sign off — a much simpler procedure than it is for the Evolved population, at least for the time being. "Ma'am," Tam says, as he takes the paperbag, paper crinkling audibly as he goes to peer inside, "that's for me to know and you— well, let's see about you never finding out. As far as you're concerned, you can consider this my one and only charitable exception. I'm just a charitable guy.
"Is this OJ?" is abrupt and kind of cheerful, hand dipping inside to rifle around lunch and money both.
Pulling the pages toward her, Delia pulls her own pen out of the pocket of her hoodie. The pen given to her is pushed aside with an elbow, careful not to touch because those things are full of germs and this is Jersey. It's not long before she starts to work on filling out all of the nitty gritties. She stops writing when the officer poses his question and glances quickly at the box before shaking her head. "Uhm… no, it's orange drink actually… Sort of a flavored variety of punch, I think? I don't know, I just got them because I didn't know— uhm.." She mumbles something under her breath to the effect of 'what kind of lunch you like'.
"You should eat the apple though," she states nonchalantly as she nears the end of the first page. The forms are rather standard, questions that are usually asked by government agencies on forms. She's almost close to finishing that last line when she pauses and turns it around for him to peruse. "Is that right? I filled it out right?"
There's a twist at Tam's mouth to indicate his dislike of apples, but does pluck out the juice box to read the back as she writes, fingernails fidgeting with the plastic casing the straw comes in. "Well," he says, once she's done, peering with distinct disinterest at the scribbled on pages. "If you spelled your name right, then yeah, looks like you're all set. Just sign down there, thank you." The money is taken out of the paperbag, flicked through with his fingers, before the notes are folded over and sequestered into a pocket with a kind of casual, unsquirrely demeanor despite—
Well. Just despite. Popping the juice box back into lunch back, he curls up the seal and takes the pages from her when it's done. "Now what happens is I get this filed away, fax over your details to the Department, and they'll set you up with a card in a coupla days — but you'll be in the system earlier than that. You need to renew in a year and a half, you don't come see me — if I'm lucky, I won't even be working here anymore.
"This," he opens up the box of the SLC set, littering the table with its contents. A used testing card displays blue, for non-Evo. "This is for if anyone peeks in while I'm processing this stuff. I'm a cautious kind of guy. Gimme your hand," he invites as he picks up the lancet. "Don't worry, only the card's old. This is fresh."
As the officer picks up the thick pin, Delia's eyes widen and she curls her hands into two fists. "W-why do you need to — If you already have a blue one?" She glances at the lancet and a grimace cuts across her features. Slowly, she reaches out one trembling hand and opens her palm, the other hand remaining tightly balled up. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and squints them shut, she hates needles of any kind.
His hand cups the back of her's, supporting her knuckles and also making sure that she doesn't twist away. "Just a precaution. The day they decide to check the hands of people walking out of this room is the day I don't want to be the one caught cheating. It's just a tiny prick, on the count of three. One, two— "
Jab.
It's a wee pinch of pain at the tip of her middle finger, a tiny gem of blood immediately welling up in response, and Tam's hands are offer her and dropping used needle into the box — the card, he leaves with her, with the circle filled in with blue from a less Evolved American.
"Congratulations, ma'am. I'll go handle this stuff, get you back your license, and you're free to go."
The blood pooling on her fingertip makes Delia just a little bit squeamish. She can handle other people's blood, she can handle digging into Huruma's body to dig out a bullet with bare hands, she can handle a foot that doesn't have a body attached to it anymore… still in the shoe. That tiny little bead just makes the bile go up in her throat. Combine the fact that instead of tossing the lancet in the garbage, he put it back in the box? Her already pale skin just goes three shades lighter than fish belly white.
"Is it okay if I go to the bathroom? I need to wash my hands." And sterilize, and scrub that pinprick out with soap, possibly injecting some anti-bacterial gel into the site. Then pray to whoever is up in the sky that she doesn't catch hepatitis A, B, C, D, or any other letters that might pop up because Delia's a newly discovered freak.
Bam.
That's the sound the door makes when it rocks back on its hinges, the echo of wood to wood too coffin hollow to really earn the exclamation marks it should. The two suits behind it buzz in quickly, like great wasps — one close after the other, what with their shoulders too broad for them to bump in at the same time and all. One has headphones seated low around his bulldog neck, Eminem still issuing forth a steady stream of ass and rape at a buzzy murmer until Vincent snags the plug from the MP3 player at his hip free with a hooked finger in passing. He's the shortest of the five (because as quickly as there were two there are now five, with a sixth posted just outside) and by far the best dressed, which should go without saying, really — immaculate from the crisp white of his collar to the polished lacquer of his wingtips. Even his stubble-collection is neatly defined under the shaved dome of his skull, black eyes alight with vindictive self-assurance when he flips his badge silver from beneath the lapel of his jacket. At Finnley. And at this office, which is probably too small to have seven people's worth of adrenaline pumping through it.
"Vincent Lazzaro," he says, a little informally, like maybe this isn't the first time he and Tam have had a conversation in his vein in the last twenty years, "you're both under arrest for pre-meditated subversion of the Evolved Registration system. They'll read you your rights in the car."
"Woah woah woah!" Being a cop, and all, Tam Finnley probably doesn't need his rights read to him — this actually is probably not what he is protesting when he's on his feet, hands splayed as if he could call the whole scenario to a halt. On his feet, leaving the used test kit and lunch bag on the table, a corner of money peeping out from his pocket. "What are you— talking about, pre-meditated— " And that's about when he shuts up as that many suits are flooding into the room, a decision made that has his jaw locking.
Until it's unlocking again. "Oh Jesus Christ, you're that internal affairs dick from Manhattan. I know your name. Let's all just take it easy for a sec'," are scattered words, clearly flustered, before an accusing squint is turned towards Delia.
Delia's blue eyes are wide enough to be considered dutch china platters. Her face, already that sickly pale goes a little green and faced with the thought that she's not going to be able to wash her hands, a small noise comes out of her. Hurk and it repeats… And whatever sandwich was in that little plastic baggie before the money? Peanut butter and strawberry jam, is recycled all over the desk. At least New Jersey won't smell any worse.
Tears stream down the redhead's face as she moves quickly toward the garbage can, not caring about the guns that might be pointed all over the room. Not unless those lovely loafers are in need of a bit of a polish. The tall young woman hugs the trash bucket until there's nothing left but a bunch of dry heaves. "Oh god… I'm going to die…"
There are no guns pointed anywhere, actually. Vincent isn't running that kind of operation. Unless he's forced to be, that is.
As things are, even with badges on display, whipping out a bunch of 9mms in a police station is generally considered a poor tactic for survival. The only projectile here is Delia's sandwich, to which Vincent notes, "PB and J," in a semi-interested aside to his nearest companion. He hasn't had dinner yet. "Nobody's dying, Delia. Nobody's been hurt. You haven't stolen anything or tried to run. But I do need you to come with me. Sam'll get your things. Speaking of which — will someone please arrest him?" Tam, that is, who somehow still isn't in handcuffs by the time he hits, 'take it easy' and Lazzaro gestures vaguely across the office for him. The two largest men hulk to comply; a third, Sam, hefts Delia's bag, earphone plug dangling at his ankles when he stoops. "This the first time you've been in trouble?"
There's a hiss of cursing, but muttered, no real abuse at anyone as Tam otherwise complies to the metal being circled around his wrists and the hand at his back, first to be marched out of the room. There's no saying anything to Delia, now, no glares or ouwards speculation — she's a smear in his periphery until he's gone completely. People, cops and citizens both, at desks and cubicles are well into rubbernecking at the storm of government officials.
Delia's lips are pursed tightly and turned to a downward curve, the tears are still streaming down her face. She nods in answer to the question and glances to the bag in the man's hand. Her face used to be pale, now it's bright red with shame because she's going to have those novels as part of some permanent record on her character. Everyone will read about her arrest record and knows she reads Harlequins. Giving a large sniffle, she tilts her head down to wipe one half of her face on her shoulder to clear away the tears.
She's still hugging the trash can, poor Tam. Not only will he have a level 2 biohazzard to clean up, he won't even have a garbage to put the sanitary wipes in. Then again, by the looks of the building and the fact that he's located in New Jersey, it's possible the desk is due for a good scrubdown anyway. Hunching her shoulder meekly and with her head hung low, she waits to amble along with the lawmen to what might be her doom. "You don't understand… my dad is going to kill me. Dead."
Meek is fine and dandy, so far as Vincent cares to be concerned. His hand finds her way to his shoulder to lead her (gently) out, practiced enough to be carelessly reassuring despite the circumstances and his personality. Tam's out first. A tilt of his head directs one of his few remaining goons to pull on a pair of rubbers and collect the evidence on the desk. Anything that isn't contaminated with vomit and probably some that is. The back of his head gets a dirty look once he's past.
"He'll be angry," he says once they're back out into the station proper, b-lining for the lobby and the more open space that entails, "but I sincerely doubt he'll kill you. What's he do for a living?" Lazzaro's progress is as clipped as it can be, but he's not rushing her, left hand flashing his badge again roundabouts the exit, where the officer on duty at the metal detector squints blearily after them.
Outside, dark is beginning to fall in earnest and Vincent's grip adjusts itself a little more firmly to the crook of her elbow. "Car's right over here."
Delia walks as fast as she can to get away from the eyes of the station staff, keeping her head ducked down like a celebrity caught in some sort of sex scandal. At least she's not dressed like a hooker, there are the small mercies to consider. With that one bit of silver lining to cling to, she doesn't struggle as she's led to the car, raising her head a little bit to watch where she's going.
"HomeSec.." she mumurs quietly, hoping that Lazzaro doesn't ask her to repeat herself. It's bad enough that she's been caught. Worse that she's going to get a record. It's a nail in the coffin that her dad is part of the agency that helps police evolved. "What's going to happen? I mean… how bad is my record going to be? Wi— will I still be able to get into med school?"
No repetition necessary. Vincent looks a little flatly over at her, the obsidian glint of his glare slicing in and out after any further indication of untruth or hyperbole. He finds neither and can only lift his brows in a commiserative kind of resignation as he leans to open the back seat of his sedan for her. The leather interior is cream colored. The radio is off.
"We are going to drive back to New York, where you and I will have a conversation. What comes out of that conversation will determine what happens to you. You have an hour to think about it until then, through which it'd probably be for the best if you didn't speak. I also advise you not to use that hour to try and come up with ways to lie to me. Do you understand?"
It's either a good thing or a really bad thing, but Delia's never been able to lie. She's got too many tells to even bother, at worst, she just doesn't tell the whole truth. All of this becomes plain as day to Larazzo when she her face turns hot and she nods dumbly. "I think my ears turn a different color than the rest of my head sometimes," she volunteers. It's not relevant at all, but the little bit of babble is accompanied by a nod to his question.
Her arms are circled around the can and she's hugging it to her chest like it's a security blanket. "Can I keep the can? Just in case?" The redhead glances to the interior of the car and then grimaces a little, shifting her glance down to the bucket in hand. "I had some cookies too."
"Okay," says Vincent, who doesn't have to think long before he nods to her request for permission to not make a mess of his vehicle. "That's fine. Do you have anything sharp on you that got past these guys? Anything else you shouldn't have that I'm about to find?"
Assuming the answer is no, he performs a quick patdown, lazy in all the places that are most likely to get him sued if he's too thorough. Sam reappears silently in the meanwhile, still toting Delia's bag when he rounds the passenger's side to open the door for himself over there. Shotgun.
Once Lazzaro's determined she doesn't have any samurai swords hidden in her skirts, he steers her down into his pimping back seat and claps the door stiffly shut after her. It locks itself.
He's on the phone for a short while outside before he climbs back in front, pacing here and there. Then he's back in the driver's seat and glancing back to see if she's hurled on anything as he reaches for the radio dial and guns the engine. "We'll get you something to eat once we're back in the city."
A couple of pens, a black sharpie, some alcohol swabs, a little bottle of anti-bacterial gel, a bit of loose change and a pack of gum, the entire inventory of Delia's pockets. "C-can I clean my finger? I don't know if he used a new lancet… and I really don't want to catch Hep or MRSA or anything like that." She gets into the back seat with no argument, waiting for permission before peeling the swabs and gel from her pocket to begin methodically cleaning her finger.
The offer of something to eat earns a wrinkle of her nose and a little grimace. "I'm not really hungry.." she mumbles sullenly, preferring to look at the tiny pinpoint than take in the sights. The smell of the garbage can has her moving it behind the passenger seat, which might be to the delight of Sam in a few minutes.
"Knock yourself out," is hopefully not going to be taken literally as Vincent puts the car in drive and steers on out, beating the approach of a big white tow truck by about thirty seconds. He may or may not have parked in a fire zone. Sam turns the radio back on, but the volume is kept down to tolerable levels. Just enough to fill the space left by a sheer absence of comfortable conversation for the hour it's going to take to get where they need to be.