Participants:
| Scene Title | All Growed Up |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard proves that's what he is when Ethan makes an offer. |
| Date | March 10, 2011 |
The Mean Streets of NYC
It's cold. It's Thursday afternoon. And it's raining. Everything dirty grey from broken windows to cracked concrete and all the spaces in between.
Flint's seated high on the pipe-tangled belly of an overturned Buick, a raw-boned lump of wet overcoat and battered fedora watching traffic slur by in sluggish waves. Murky water laps at the curb after passing tires, rushing garbage along on its way to the gutter.
He isn't smoking. He isn't doing much of anything, really, bent up like a bat under his coat and the drippy brim of his hat trying to catch cold. Made easier to pick out than other scruffily homeless sacks of shit mottling the landscape by the chilly blue light that rings occasionally 'round his eyes when anyone with an umbrella and a decent-sized purse hustles past.
"Yeah, that's 'im."
A pair of like dressed men stand in the frame of a broken out window, watching the rain drip down from the gap in the dirty grey building they perch in. Ethan is smoking, the red flaring up for a moment as the smoke flutters away from his nostrils. Bringing the fag down, his hand is placed on the sill of the window. Crunching down on fragmented window, without so much as opening up a cut. A smug smile crosses his lips. The hand pushes against the sharp glass, spreading it around some. Bringing his hand up it is then slapped back down on the glass. His hand completely unscathed by the sharp edges.
The cigarette is brought back up to his mouth. Set in between his lips, he leans against the frame. "Remember. No sudden movements. And don't let 'im see anything shiny. And don't mention his skin problem, 'e doesn't like it. And whatever you do, don't say th'word you. 'e 'as a fucked up child'ood. That word makes him foam at th'mouth and grab at 'is junk." Ethan gives a sort of sad shake of his head. "Meet me down there." And with that, Ethan is leaning forward.
Holden leans his way all the way out of the window on the second story. Black shoes slapping hard against the pavement when he lands, a few steps taken to stabilize himself. That smile grows around his cigarette as he approaches the turned over buick from the rear.
"Flint Fuckin' Deckard."
"Nothin' shiny, no sudden movements, don' use the word you.. got'et." Edgar repeats as he studies the hunched over man outside. It just figures that he picked today to wear his fancy new (to him) leather jacket with all the nifty chains on the shoulders. Breaking the first rule, he glances at one shoulder and then the other very quickly before reaching up to rip them off and drop them to the floor with a clink.
Deckard will just have to deal with the zippers.
"You sure 'e's a good pick? I mean, if 'e's tha' mad… s'he some kinda mad fightin' machine er sumthen'?" Without hearing the answer, the younger of the two Englishmen blurs as he zips to another window and peers out at Deckard, once again breaking the first rule. The American is afforded a more scrutinizing glance, with narrowed eyes and the scrape of a hand against the stubble on Edgar's cheek. Looks can be deceiving, it's possible that— Oh, Ethan just jumped out of the window. He just broke rule number one too.
With a slight shrug, to no one but the dust bunnies, Edgar zips out of view and in less than the time it takes to blink, he's beside Ethan. Sudden move number one.
As mangled as Deckard's memory may be, there are some voices and affectations he's less likely to forget.
Like the one that standing his hackles standing on end now, little hairs bristled cold down the back of neck when he wrenches himself awkwardly up and around onto his boots. Still balanced on the car, he looks to be more or less the same crook Ethan remembers. Rangy, unkempt, long through the face and with a nasty rankle already bit into the bridge of his nose. The intermittent blue bug-zapper blur of his eyes has likewise gunned into something brighter and more clear cut, unholy light ablaze beneath the hood of his brow.
If there's one main difference between then and now it's that he's facing the right way for Ethan and his waifu to see them. …As opposed to running away.
Anyway.
He gives Ethan enough benefit of the doubt to wait until Edgar makes his sudden move to reach for his gun.
"No." Ethan had answered to the crazy fighting machine question. "'e can tell whot kind of underroos you're wearin'." Or lack thereof.
But when the English E's garner Deckard's attention, a vicious grin that bares his teeth flashes up. Another drag taken on the cigarette. Smoke is flung out of his nostrils before Ethan tosses the close to stub of the cancer stick over to the side. He doesn't let Deckard's hackle bristling deter him from approaching. "Whot is the need for that?" Holden asks, tilting his head with a light amused smile. "If I wanted t'kill Flint Deckard, wouldn't one think I'd of done it before now?"
He glances over his shoulder to Edgar. "New model. Less asian this time." Ethan waves a hand around before motioning to the other man. "Edgar Smythe, Flint Deckard. My very first snitch in New York City." He says it with affection. As if he was his sweetheart not his snitch. Aww.
"Howsit Flint?" A new cigarette is pulled from his jacket.
Well that could get embarrassing.
The expression on Edgar's face remains calm and neutral as he attempts to remember exactly which pair he grabbed this morning and whose they were. As Ethan speaks, the carnie makes a slow movement to reach to his flank to tug the waist of his cordouroys out. His neck cranes around as he peeks down, no lace, that's a good thing, but they don't look familiar. Which means they could be anyone's… except Eileen's. She's a bit too small.
When the introduction is made, Edgar breaks rule number one again and jerks his head forward a little too quickly. "Pleasure— I s'pose." A snitch. Eep. The hand that was so recently in the back of his pants is stretched out for a shake, he didn't even rub it off first.
Gun in hand just past the lapel of his waterlogged coat, Flint hesitates when Edgar goes digging in his pants. His focus adjusts a subtle matter of degrees, aperture advanced one stop and retreated two while he shifts his weight and the car shifts creakily with him.
Checking his…underwear.
On the brittle edge of letting his guard down a hair or so, the older man stiffens again at the label of snitch, sore resentment familiar in the fuzzy lines around his mouth when he looks at Edgar's offered hand then back at the rest of Edgar. He doesn't blink as often as he should, rain running into his eyes eventually enough to provoke a one-sided flinch.
"Never better. What do you want?"
You~"
The word is practically sang for the other man as Ethan takes a step forward. "But listen Deckard. I've fucked up a lot in th'past. I've probably been the more hurtful of th'pair of us in our relationship. I would totally understand if I was shot for my transgressions in this relationship. Right fuckin 'ere." A finger prods at the space in between his eyes. Prod prod prod.
"But after the shootins done. I wanted t'let all it known to all those interested that: We've recently changed our mission statement from 'umanity killin' to government resisting or something like that, I'm not sure. So inquire within." A little shrug is given as he glances to Deckard, pointing to the unlit cigarette placed in his lips.
"Got a light?" He asks it of Deckard.
There's talking and even though Ethan's colorful vocabulary and beautiful accent are like music to the ears, Edgar's attention drifts. The 'bench' that Deckard is occupying is eyed with a great interest, already the speedster's eyes are flitting quickly over all the parts. One can almost see the gears smoking as he imagines different uses for all of the parts.
At about the same time that Ethan starts his sales pitch about their little family, Edgar actually wanders from his side and crouches down near the drain at the side of the road. Something shiny~. It's a quarter, which is cleaned off, polished and then held up to what little daylight is available. This makes yet another rule that the carnie has broken.
"Yeah? Well I guess your other little bird didn't get the memo, because she's still 'u-manit-y killin' all up in this bitch," Deckard actually sneers, ill temper written hard into the defensive set of his shoulders and the whites of bared teeth. Like a mangy jackal dragged ass backwards out of its burrow.
His gun's fallen to his side through the course of the conversation so far, temptation to take Ethan up on his offer left to lie latent until he's made a decision one way or the other.
There's a quiet moment while he tries to let everything settle towards reason. Then Edgar's picking things out of the gutter and Flint swings a look hard around after Ethan as he feels a lighter of his coat with his free hand and halfass throws it at his feet. "I think your sidekick is defective."
"Oh?" Ethan asks, arching his brows. "'umanit-y killin in the bitch? I wasn't aware. What 'uman-ity is she killin?" Ethan asks, tilting his head at the other man. Placing his hands in his peacoat, the man leans back some. Stretching his neck one way then the other he lets out a quiet yawn. Taking a few steps forward, Ethan goes to lean against the side of the buick. One hand creeping up to drum against the side of the car.
Glancing over to Edgar, the Wolf pulls back his teeth some. Picking through the gutter. That's unfortunate. Looking back at Deckard he gives a little frown. "Now that's unkind. 'e's a very good sort. 'e just likes coins."
Looking up from his coin, Edgar shoves it into his pocket and stares at the two of them slackjawed. "Sum'one's killin' manatees? Ain' they one'a them endangered species'er sumthen like tha'?" Little birds and memos are lost on the speedster, not that he belongs in remedial classes or anything, he just wasn't paying attention. "I saw a picture in a magazine once. They got scars all over their backs 'cause they keep swimmin' into boats'n stuff. Sad, really."
The magazine was one of the ones they were allowed to read in prison, though all the good stuff was redacted before the prisoners were allowed to flip through them. Sad day for many of the others, there were no naked tribal women to stare at during lonely nights. Just scarred manatees.
"Cops," says Deckard.
There's a ring of truth to the curt cutoff there, devoid of elaboration. And he's suddenly watching very, very closely, snake to target settling slowly back on his wiry coils until Ethan's nearness is too much. Two carefully picked and precariously cagey steps later, he drops down on the car's opposite side. Closer to Edgar. Further from Fenrir.
"He tell you what happened to his last bitch?"
"It is sad."
The agreement comes from Ethan over to Edgar. It is very sad. Poor manatees. Holden is then looking back over to Deckard. "This is Eileen we're talking about? Or do I have another little bird that I'm not really aware of?" He's not sure. He could have more than one metaphorical bird. When Deckard asks the question of Edgar, Ethan lets out a little sigh. "Bludgeoned to death!" Holden calls out over the car to the man.
"Anyways Deckard. Wonderin' if we would be 'avin' another member joining our group." Ethan sort of asks, looking over his shoulder.
Bitch. Edgar's not a bitch. Edgar is nobody's bitch. He's even been to prison and gotten out without being someone's bitch. Regardless, Deckard's comment has the speedster's eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching, which, funnily enough, causes his stiffly gelled fauxhawk to rise in some places. He remains silent, even if stoicism fails him.
He's sullen, almost pouty as he jams his hands into his pocket and curls his top lip up in a sneer, "I ain't goin'teh ge' bludgeoned teh death." It's all he has to say about it, maybe drown, get shot, or even freeze to death, which seems to be the most likely. Especially given where they live.
There is only one little bird. If Deckard might've been about to answer anyway, he flattens out the line of his mouth and hoods his brow when Ethan clarifies Wu-Long's fate right up front. All the better to sideways size up Edgar's skeleton like a piece of dubious lawn furniture. Gnome in a leather jacket.
Underlying notions of I could take him are notably not followed up with any kind of puff or direct challenge in the span of silence that follows.
"How much are you paying." Isn't a question.
"Nah." Ethan agrees with Edgar. "He aint gonn ge' bludgeoned to death." The low growl of the Wolf's voice emitting steadily from the other side of the corpse of a vehicle. Pushing off the side, the cigarette is nurtured as he makes his way around the vehicle towards Deckard. "Pay? More than that bird is to keep you be'avin." A light smirk spreads across his lips.
"That aint you, Decks. Not your kinda life. You're like us."
The cigarette is pulled away by two fingers as another nostril puff is given. The long stream of smoke flowing out past his lips. "Y'need somethin' t'move. Or be moved by." Ethan gives a little shrug as he reaches into his coat pocket. Pulling out another cigarette and offering it to Deckard. "Still don't smoke, Smythe?"
"Sorry mate, 'm more 'fraid of the wife catchin' me wi' a fag 'tween my lips than I am of 'er catchin' me in your daughter's pants." Which kind of fag isn't explained. Brushing the offer away with a wave of his hand, the speedster tucks his hands into the pockets of his cordouroys and hunches his shoulders. From behind the leather jacket looks a little stiff.
What is handy about Deckard's vision is how he's able to count exactly how many knives Edgar has tucked in various places around his body. A harness of metal lines his jacket, four more strapped around his calves, and four large ones at his back are criss crossed and rendered practically invisible to anyone without xray vision.
Whatever those freaky glowing eyes are doing though, Edgar doesn't know and instead gives an uneasy glance to Ethan as it seems the carnie's services are volunteered.
With the rain lulled down into a sullen dribble grey between buildings, Flint sniffs (self-consciously) against the soggy, worn down state of himself. There's a uneven drip off the sodden brim of his hat when he shifts his weight around to face Ethan's approach head on, more comfortable with the Iron Chef at his back than the even limier bastard telling him about The Way That He Is.
Allusions to Bella coax him back into a bristle, wet grizzle slicked back over the jut of his ears and a hunch set into his shoulders. Uneasy. He doesn't skirt back around the other side of the car, this time. Nor does he reach to take the offered cigarette.
"Rule number one is going to be for you to mind your own fucking business."
Ethan doesn't get angry at Edgar's suggestion that he might be in Eileen's pants. Mostly because when Edgar says things like that, Ethan takes it quite literally. Rather than the carnie banging his daughter, it means Edgar would just be sporting skinny jeans that smell like ravens. Or magpies. Or whoever Eileen is hanging out with these days.
The cigarette is recalled and placed back in Ethan's pockets. A light smirk flicks up his lips. "Y'know whot? That almost brings a tear to me eye. Three years ago sayin' somethin' like that to me would 'ave you nearly pissin' in your pants. But look at ye. You've grown, Deckard." Another deep drag is taken from the fag. The cigarette kind. Not from Edgar.
"I like it."
"We've got a place on Staten Island. There's a room there for ye, if ye want it. Usual crew plus a few new faces. Got arms if you need it." He pauses. Arching a brow with a clean smirk. "Whot's rule number two?"
"Don' le' 'im see anythin' shiny," Edgar supplies helpfully, still not paying much attention, which might be why he's parroting Ethan's rules for Deckard back at him instead of listening for more of Deckard's rules for Ethan. Already the speedster's broken rule number one of the new rules and butted in.
Still.
One of his hands wriggles in the pocket of his pants, patting his thigh lightly as he cranes his neck toward the surrounding area. A passing woman gets a slight nod of the head in greeting as she crosses the street to avoid the trio. Edgar doesn't think much of it, he's used to it.
"There is no rule number two," says Deckard, who looks about as pleased over being reminded of the good old days as can be expected, traces of old dislike carved in stark around his eyes. Still. Long jaw slung low at a sideways jut, glower at least as radioactive as it looks in the humidity, he reaches slowly to seat his semiautomatic back into its holster.
The position of Edgar's hand-in-pocket gets a critical, lingering look when he cranes a glance around after him. Then after the lady crossing the street. "Who?" Who's not supposed to see anything shiny. >:/
"Alright fine." Ethan grunts. No number two. He gives a little nod to Edgar before looking back to Deckard. "Imaginary friends." He conspiratorially explains with a flourish of his hand. "Don't worry bout it." Taking a long loping step forward, he glances down at Deckard then back up. "I wish you would 'ave shot me. Would 'ave been th'perfect way t'show you me new trick." The cigarette is plucked from his lips and cast to the ground unceremoniously.
Turning his back to Deckard he takes a few steps away from the man, back to rejoin Edgar. "Y'want any of your things taken, Smythe can bring 'em over in a 'urry for you. Or 'e can take you there. I doubt you like being man'andled like that, but everyone 'as their guilty pleasures. We'll see you at the island, Flint."