aman2_icon.gif mohinder_icon.gif odessa2_icon.gif ff_silas_icon.gif

Scene Title Bamboozle
Synopsis (v) 1. to deceive by underhanded methods 2. to confuse, frustrate, or throw off completely
Date February 6, 2020

Aman’s High-Rise Apartment, Bay Ridge

Spaghetti might be more of a dinner meal, but it’s fast, it’s easy, it’s inexpensive, and Aman currently owns no less than three different types of sauce you could slather on pasta. The water’s coming to a boil while he stands in front of the fridge, looking within for anything else that could prove itself a worthwhile side item to the lunch he’s quickly throwing together.

He’s come to the conclusion maybe he needs to shop more.

Letting out a dissatisfied tone, he starts to shut the fridge again when he hears a knock at the door. Eyebrow arching, he looks over his arm to where Odessa is on the other side of the apartment. Outwardly, there’s no sign of panic, just a wave of his hand for her to keep out of sight, but she’s all too aware of the small knot of anxiety as he heads for the door. It’s the urgency of someone who’s inspired to pretend everything’s normal, all while worrying whoever is at the door is someone who might be interested in the roommates convicts he’s hiding in his apartment.

But for now, time to put on a face and pretend like the best of them.

Amanvir Binepal, Upstanding Citizen With Absolutely Nothing At All To Hide, turns the deadbolt and opens the front door partway, question of hi, how can I help you halfway to being spoken. He even has on his best Neighborly face, with some of its features stolen from his Customer Service Face.

It vanishes away into a pale horror on seeing the face on the other side. No moment is spared on hesitation. As soon as recognition dawns in his eyes, he simply slams the door and bolts it again as fast as his hands will allow him to. “Shit, shit,” he swears, looking now through the peephole all-too-belatedly. A blink of time allows him to confirm what he already knew, and then he’s backpedaling from the door, hands coming up to grip the side of his head in an anxiety he’s not exhibited since he and Odessa first met, even if that was only a handful of days ago. “Oh fuck,” he voices, exceedingly helpful in describing what he saw. His fingers curl through his hair. “Des, we’re dead. We’re fucked. We’re—”

At the knock on the door, Odessa immediately turns her eyes to it and stares as though she might be able to look through it. Her eyes narrow with the concentration it takes to feel through it. There’s something familiar about the sensation on the other side, but she can’t put her finger on it. Instead, she finds herself withdrawing as she climbs to her feet and hurries out of sight.

Only the whisper of a zipper opening gives her away just before he opens the door. Odessa rummages through the duffel bag given to her by her cousin until she finds what she’s looking for. She rises from her crouch and presses her back against the wall, holding her breath as she listens to the exchange.

Or… what passes for one, considering the door slams again almost as quickly as it was opened. “The fuck we are,” Odessa hisses as she slips out of the bathroom doorway, a knife in hand. “Who’s out there? You let them in, and I can take care of them.”

So much for behaving herself.

At the question of who’s out there, all Aman can do is let out a nervous laugh. Who’s out there. Right. Someone who shouldn’t be, that’s who. Somebody who threatened to shoot him only when he thought Aman might be dead weight, rather than a responsible party in a major betrayal.

But hey, Odessa’s got a knife.

He starts to shuffle from side to side, like maybe it’ll help him not get shot through the door if he’s not standing in a single spot. After a moment of consideration, he sidles back to Odessa, arms swinging down by his side. “So you remember the guy who ‘fell behind’? He didn’t. We left him behind.” he explains in a low voice, quick. His eyes fall to her knife. Okay.

“Listen, you be quick with that shit before he’s got a chance to do anything. Okay? This guy already wanted to kill me before, and if he’s here, it’s not with good news.” Aman closes his eyes, exhaling a breath to steady himself. "How the fuck did he even…" Escape? Figure out who Aman was, where he lived?

He should ask himself, maybe. Get Redd talking, maybe he'll monologue just long enough to step inside and meet the business and of Odessa's fist.

Clearing his throat, Aman reaches for the lock again, pulls the door open slightly. His expression is polite, like the shut in the face hadn't happened only moments ago. "Hey there," buddy, pal, friend! "What're you doing here?" He steps back, opening the door enough so 'Redd' can come in. "Let's not talk in the hall."

"Rude," Silas observes off-handedly, a moment after the door is violently slammed closed on him. Not that he doesn't understand — he does, completely — but being able to understand something and approving of it are two entirely different things, and the courier's reactions leave a lot to be desired so far, as far as Silas is concerned.

Still. He can't say he didn't expect this, or something like it. He shifts his grip on the six pack of beer bottles he's brought with him and raps lightly on the door once more… then, after a moment's consideration, takes a step to the back and two to the side. Just in case.

That turns out to be unwarranted, at least — when next the door opens, there's no immediate hail of bullets — but the courier's sudden invitation inside is about as suspicious as a three dollar bill. Silas's expression flattens a bit; he does his best not to show the surge of mingled exasperation and pity he feels at just how transparently obvious it is that he's up to something. "Great. Sure. Glad you came around." He's hoping he doesn't have to punch anyone, but that sudden change of heart is just a little too suspicious; Silas has a strong suspicion that this guy has got Something Stupid(tm) in mind that he's gonna have to deal with before any actual talking can go on.

Once the courier's stepped back, Silas doesn't immediately step in; instead, he pushes the door open wide, so he can get a clear view of the apartment — and, if necessary, clear the door before anyone tries to put any lead in him.

He’s cautious. Smart. Odessa is again pressed flat against the wall and out of sight by the time the door swings open. If he was going to shoot Aman, he’d have done it by now. She can afford to wait until their guest steps inside. But her brow furrows as she recognizes Silas’ voice. She peers in the direction of the doorway out of the corner of her eye, as though she would be able to see him and discern which Silas MacKenzie has come to call.

Unfortunately, she won’t take for granted that this is the good twin.

Once Aman is welcoming his guest and Silas is making his way inside, that’s when Odessa springs. The movement is swift and smooth. During the war, people assumed her strength and her speed were a result of her mutation. The actual hard work she put into being a killing machine was never appreciated for what it was.

With the knife flipped around in her hand - because she expects Aman would appreciate it if she can avoid spilling copious amounts of blood in his apartment - Odessa lashes at Silas with a growl, aiming to strike him in the face with the flat of her fist and the hilt of the knife.

Silas pushing the door open before daring a step in— smart move, Aman thinks. Too bad Odessa's fast enough to clear the distance around that well-opened door anyway. Aman hops a step back quickly to get out of the way.

It's only belatedly he notices the beer rather than, say, a gun in his visitor's hand.

That's a frankly bewildering detail, but not one he's willing to let get in the way of letting Odessa defend both their lives.

Silas steps in, eyes flickering warily to the side —

— and the first thing he notices, the absolute first thing, is the gleam of a


coming at him


Too close!


Silas is already backpedaling. "Catch!" Silas barks, snapping the pack of beer at the courier in a fast underhanded pitch — if he plans to jump in on this fray, he's gonna be a second or two later now.

But there's only five bottles in the pack sailing towards Aman; the sixth is still in Silas's hand, wielded by the neck as an improvised weapon. He snaps it up, towards the knife that's coming at him. It's only then that he notices that she's striking with the hilt… and only then that he notices that she's also swinging with the other hand.

His bottle cracks her in the wrist hard enough to deflect the knifehilt, but she's still closing in fast and he can still see the gleam of that blade, and she's not the only one in this apartment; this situation isn't going to get better unless he makes it get better. He takes another step back, surveying the surroundings for something — anything — to help turn the tables.

Tables. Endtable.

Silas takes another step back, hooking his foot around an end table and slinging it in front of him, sending everything on it crashing to the floor… then he kicks up, sending it flying at Des's face —

Wait. Des?


Hopefully it's enough to break her momentum, at least, buy him enough time to get her to stop trying to beat the shit out of him.

Deflecting off the bottle causes a quiet grunt of pain, leaving Odessa to stagger back a step and shake out her wrist. She hisses, but doesn’t switch the grip on her knife. Her arm comes up to take another swing at Silas, but he brings the end table up faster.

The blade comes through the other side, scant inches from him. At least until he shoves the table forward and sends Odessa tumbling backward. Okay, this is going rougher than expected. Batting the the table away and abandoning her knife buried in its face, she redoubles her efforts with a frustrated shout, rushing forward to throw her weight into her appointment, slight through it may be. Momentum is a help.

Any other day of the week, Aman would be thrilled to suddenly be awarded with a pack of beer. Sure, it'd be great if it hadn't been thrown at him, but he'd appreciate it anyway.


He stumbles steps back as the weight of it careens into him, his calves coming to bump against the coffee table. Eyes widened, he awkwardly handles the bundle without dropping it, though it doesn't stay with him for long. The pack goes sliding sideways and very carefully comes to a barely controlled clatter down on the table he'd nearly tripped on, and Aman snaps back upright with his hands held in front of him in anticipation of any other objects being thrown his way.

"Any way we can do this less loudly?" he asks, too little, far too late, and just a touch at odds with everything else happening here. "We're gonna get the fucking cops called on us at this rate."

"You're the one who invited me in and had D — shit!" Silas cuts himself off as he sees Des throw herself at him. She's weasel quick; he can't react in time. Des slams into him, her momentum catching him off balance, driving him back towards the wall. Shit.

Okay. As she drives him back, he grabs at her waist with his free hand, trying to use her momentum against her and twist them around so that both of them impact the wall at the same time, rather than her driving him squarely into the wall.

“Augh!” The pair of them hit the wall and she bounces off with a cry, managing to keep her footing because of the leverage she has by holding the front of his coat. Odessa uses it to drag him toward her, only to throw Silas back toward the wall again. This time, she rams her arm up against his shoulders and then means to jam it against his throat, pinning him there.

Odessa’s chest heaves, her eyes blazing with determination. It isn’t often she finds herself challenged like this. But he isn’t trying to kill her. Or Aman. “I can do this all day,” she promises. In the beat that follows, she wonders if he’s going to strike back and continue their little dance.

A spike of uncertainty shears a hole in Aman's belief that "Redd" is either here to kill them or strip them for information and then kill them. The beer, his lack of forward assault— even his manner of speech. He'd had a very different reaction the last time he'd been betrayed, after all. This should have just been the last nail in Aman's coffin.

So what the hell?

"Wait wait wait," Aman starts, plainly confounded. He holds up his hand a little higher, arm still outstretched. "You're not here to do us in? Do me in?" He keeps his distance from the fracas, observing it with wide eyes… and a tinny note of something like guilt.

Is someone there? Please, help!” A voice echoes from behind a closed door elsewhere in the apartment. Handcuffed to an old radiator, Mohinder Suresh can’t tell who is the source of the scuffle, can’t tell whether it’s Wolfhound come to flip the coin on wanted dead or alive, or whether it’s literally anyone else that could liberate him from this predicament.

Silas manages to avoid being pinned to the wall by the first impact, but Des is good — she manages to come off the rebound with that weasel-quick speed of hers and pin him on the second. He manages to get his free arm up, at least, interposing it against her arm and keeping at least some of her weight off of his windpipe… though thankfully, she doesn't seem quite as intent on crushing it as she might have earlier. There are still countermoves he could make, if the situation merited it… but right now, Des seems inclined to talk, so maybe this isn't such a bad situation after all.

After all, this certainly isn't the worst position he's negotiated from.

The courier's question draws a glance and a look of tired exasperation. Better late than never, he supposes, though if it actually had been Redd here to kill him, the courier would've been dead before he'd ever known who it was. "No, I am not here to kill anyone. Why would I bring beer if I wanted to murder y'all?" The voice from the back room draws a slight sideways glance. Jesus, what else did this guy manage to fuck up? he thinks, but doesn't say anything at the moment — he's got more pressing concerns. He shifts his attention to Des instead.

"And as much as it might be fun to go a round or six sometime, Des, under different circumstances," he says, a hint of a roguish grin flickering to his lips before his expression grows serious again, "maybe we should postpone that. Wind things back a bit. Because if I'm not here to murder anyone… kinda begs the question of why I am here, doesn't it?"

"So hows about we sit down and have a chat about that? Without starting another Pay Per View event in the living room?" he suggests.

Odessa stands rigid for a beat longer. Finally, her mouth ticks up in a smirk and she lifts her arm from Silas’ throat. “You’re one cool cucumber,” she commends. “You really ought to be more scared of me, but… Not this time.” She makes a show of giving her back to Silas as she tells Aman, “He’s fine. This is the good twin.”

Letting out a sigh, Odessa moves to the damaged end table to retrieve her knife and set it back up as though nothing were wrong with it. See? It has character now! Isn’t that grand? No? Well, she tried.

“Where’re the keys? I’m going to go take Suresh for walkies.”

Aman doesn't know what to think of this at all. "Twin?" he stammers out, all while Odessa goes about recollecting her knife. A belated response comes in the form of storming to the door so he can shut it, just barely keeping from slamming it in the process. They didn't need any more loud noises.

"Shut up, Momo." Except that one. That one felt deserved. The question of the keys arising, Aman starts to fish them free from his front pocket, almost throws them to Odessa before he sees fit to question doing so. Instead, he holds up both hands with the keys in a closed fist, gesturing for pause.

"Whoa, hold on, wait— let's back the fuck up," Aman shakes his head as he rewinds. His voice climbs in tone. "So who are you? And why are you here? And how do you two know each other?" His brow knits together. Perplexed as he is, he can put together a vague guess at it all, but it only frustrates him further. "You're not the oni. I was expecting her."

If only to yell at her, maybe. And demand some additional hazard pay.

Silas just shakes his head a bit at Des's comment on how he ought to be more afraid. Not that he disagrees, entirely — that little performance had made it clear that Des coming after him with the pointy end of a knife would be an ugly situation; she'd made him look almost as bad as La Zorra usually had when they'd sparred. But…


He shakes his head, breathing out and letting some of the tension slip from his muscles; navel-gazing is not what he's here to do. So instead he leans on the wall and taps on the lid of his beer bottle, waiting for the beer to settle a bit; all that shaking can't have been good for the fizz.

The courier's questions draw a raised eyebrow and a long, level look as he considers. "You," he says at last, "can call me Smiles." Now, at last, he dares to twist the cap of his beer, loosening it just a bit; it hisses angrily, but doesn't spew foam out just yet. Good. "I'm here on behalf of said oni, because she couldn't be." There's a flicker of worry in him on her behalf, but worrying isn't going to do her any good; getting the job done, on the other hand, will. "As to how I know Des, that is for her to tell you, if she so chooses."

"As to why I'm here…"

He twists the cap the rest of the way off the beer, eliciting another angry hiss, but again, no foam spews onto the carpet; Silas smiles at that, satisfied, and takes a drink. "First, there's apparently a… 'package' I'm supposed to take possession of, and see to it that it's delivered to its destination. Secondly…" he says, turning to look at Des. "At your convenience, Des, I was asked to provide escort and safe passage to another destination for you." He pauses, frowning. "Thirdly…"

He looks over to Aman, frowning. "I'd like to know just what the hell went on between you and my evil twin."

Silas holds the courier's gaze for a moment… then cracks a grin. "Not, uh, necessarily in that order, of course," he says, taking another drink of his beer.

Odessa stands poised to receive the keys, but relaxes her posture when it seems Aman isn’t going to relinquish them. Not without some answers, anyway. Which, she has to admit, seems fair enough to her. “Smiles and I are complicated,” she offers as a caution. “Not like change-your-Facebook-relationship-status complicated, though.” Just before anyone gets any ideas about the definition of that word. “Just the you-probably-aren’t-being-paid-enough-to-care type of complicated.”

All the while she casually explains this, she’s turning the knife in her hand and strolling back to where her bag of supplies sits on the bathroom tile. She doesn’t need that anymore. It can go back in its nice little sheath and cuddle up to her make-up bag. Odessa pauses at the bedroom door, resting her palm against its surface and concentrating for a moment on the man on the other side. “Sorry, hon. Your knight in shining armor hasn’t come yet.”

Once Silas gets done counting to three, Aman's shoulders drop and his eyes roll up into his head. "Y'gotta be…" is the only audible portion to his self-whispered mumbling, head lolling as he looks in Odessa's direction. "Don't be so sure about that," he balks, then tosses the tiny set of keys in her direction. They almost don't carry enough weight to make the full sail across the living space, but just barely do they make it to her.

After, his arms swing wide to gesture across the rest of his apartment. "Do I look like I've got anything else of hers, after all?"

It's only then that Aman looks back to Silas, deciding that he needs a drink himself. He tries to keep his step light with spotty success, nabbing one of the beers from the pack on the coffee table. He's less cautious with his, snapping the cap off quickly. It flows over, but he makes a good effort of catching the foam with his mouth, and apparently doesn't care about the rest, swapping the bottle from one hand to the next so he can wick the moisture from his palm with a flick of his wrist.

"Okay, Smiles," he begins flatly. "First of all, the package is a 'dead guy.'" Aman's sarcasm is laid on thick enough the air quotes practically take physical form. He takes a sizable drink off the top of his beer before gesturing to Silas with it. "Which, for the record, I agreed to a two hour job, and here we are …" He tries to count the days. He loses count. "—what, almost a week later? I agreed to be an escape button, not a safehouse. She fucking knows that, right?"

He doesn't wait for a response. He must assume the answer's yes.

Tongue clicking off his palate, he tilts the mouth of the bottle to one side. "As for your 'thirdly', I didn't even know the guy. I still don't know the guy. The only thing that went on between me and him is he thought I'd be great bait to shoot and leave for the armed guards to maul first." His brow lifts. It's clear he finds that to be a very rude thing to do.

"Long story short, a lot of terrorist shit happened, then it's just me and Oni and Redd breaking into this prison building, we nab Des, I get her out and go back for them, we skip through some doors and go further and further in this place, unlock the dead guy's cell, lock ourselves in—"

This is a moment of the story which is pivotal, but Aman pauses to aside, "—which immediately I was like 'something's off here', so I reminded her I couldn't teleport more than two other people at a time,"

And then he lurches back into the same conversational tone as before with just as much enthusiasm as previously demonstrated. "And then she grabs the dude, grabs a hold of me, and tells me to teleport out without Redd." He pauses then, lifting a shoulder. "—Not in as many words, mind you, because it was all super quick and her communication skills kind of fucking suck, but…"

Aman lets out a sigh through his teeth as he reconsiders Silas a bit guiltily. "So, yeah, sorry for assuming you were coming for revenge, given the last thing I heard from a guy who looks exactly like you was that I was ‘dead’. Maybe he just meant Oni, given it was her pulling the strings and all, but…" He shakes his head, lifting his beer to drink again. "I'm pretty sure a guy like him wouldn't make that distinction."

Silas's expression grows grimmer and grimmer as the courier talks; his emotional state, similarly, grows progressively bleaker. "No," he murmurs darkly, regarding the courier with an almost pitying stare. "No, I don't think he would." Neither is he betting on Aman to live a long and healthy life, given the givens; at this point, he's just happy the courier lived long enough to relay the story.

He debates, for a moment, whether or not to offer advice; if Redd does track down the courier and decides to ask questions before he puts a bullet in his brain, anything Silas says now can and will be used against him. Picking Smiles as a nickname might not have been the best decision, either. Shit.

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Your reaction's understandable… but if I was gradin', I'd still have to give it a fail. If it really had been him at the door, you'd have had a bullet in your brain the second you'd opened it," he says, sounding faintly apologetic as he takes a monster drink of beer. Maybe he can give some Redd survival tips before he leaves, if the courier wants them, but for now there's other questions to be asked.

"So. About this package," he asks, frowning. He's not liking what he's heard so far about this.

“I know this doesn’t look like dead scientist storage,” Odessa quips. “I mean, there wasn’t even a sign on the door, but… Here we are.” Her hand slips from the face of the door down to the knob, turning it and slipping inside without granting much view of what’s beyond the door before she closes it behind her.

“Hey…” The bottle redhead smiles apologetically to Mohinder and holds up the keys to the fuzzy handcuffs that keep him trapped in the bedroom. “I’m gonna unchain you from the radiator, and you’re not going to fight me or I’m going to knock you flat on your ass and I’m going to feel bad about it. Sound good?” She doesn’t actually wait for him to give an affirmative. If he tries to overtake her, Odessa will make good on her word.

Crossing the space between them, she kneels down and fits the small key into the lock. But rather than unfasten the cuff around Mohinder’s wrist, she undoes the other one and fastens it around her own wrist, shoving the keys into her bra. If there’s one place he won’t go fishing for them, she figures that’s it. “Come on. We’re going to go talk to the nice man out in the living room about what we’re going to do next.” Odessa rises to her feet and tilts her head toward the door she came from.

The bedraggled man being hauled out behind Odessa is the face behind the voice shouting for help earlier. Mohinder Suresh has seen better days, judging from the week’s worth of stubble on his face, bags under his eyes, and sour expression sagging the corners of his mouth down. Wringing his wrists from the chafe of handcuffs, he all but freezes in place when he spots Silas.

You,” Mohinder breathlessly asserts, looking between Aman and Odessa in total confusion. The confusion is, at least for Silas, reciprocal. Because the last time he saw Mohinder Suresh it was as a guest on the Channel 6 evening news as an expert on how the flooding that devastated the coastal United States was an aberrant phenomenon. A week later all telecommunications failed and the Vanguard rolled out of their fortresses to begin the inland purges. Even in the face of the end of the world, the Department of Evolved Affairs was still trying to hide the existence of people with abilities… right up until that end was final.

But that was a different world, that was a different Mohinder Suresh, and yet here he is having the same cognitive dissonance. Here he is staring slack-jawed at the mirror of Silas Redd.

"I know, I know," Aman drags out the sound of his aside to Mohinder. "Believe me, I had the same reaction. But apparently Redd has a twin and this one's the nice one."

He sounds skeptical about it all still, and realizing that, opts to change his tune with another drink, over which he catches sight that Odessa is linked physically to Mohinder. No single sip of any drink, though, is enough to stifle the pang of dread that ripples from him at the thought of her lashing her fate to a guy who's supposed to be dead. He had really hoped she wouldn't, not metaphorically, and certainly not physically.

But it's not his business, he tries to remind himself, looking away. He refocuses on Silas.

"Listen, so, a lot of this is me just inferring, but it doesn't feel like a huge jump in logic, so just bear with me, all right?" He sighs, then, rubbing the side of his face before gesturing with that same hand while he speaks. "The oni said Mazdak wanted Suresh dead, so he dies. Dramatic fucking pause later, she says 'Okay, he's dead now,' and tells me to take Des and Mohinder and teleport home and leave her behind. She said if anyone figures out he's alive, I'm fucked. She fucking shot the other guy we came with, the bomb guy, to keep that secret." For a flicker of a moment, he's unnerved, but he moves on. His brow arches as he points vaguely at Silas. "Now you show up, looking for Des and a package, and to me that reads like…"

Aman had such a good trail of thought going until he catches up and rethinks something he'd just said. Did he really have any reassurance Silas was here for the reasons he said he was? Did Asi really send him? His look falters suddenly with doubt.

But like Silas said, he'd probably be dead by now if 'Smiles' was anything other than he said he was.

"… reads like…" he repeats, shaking his head as he gets back on track. His confidence is only half what it was as he explains, "the 'package' is Mohinder, since he's supposed to be dead and all."

Distractedly, he gestures with his beer hand as he emphasises, "Look, I didn't know what I was getting into until we were already there. I didn't know it was related to Mazdak until the oni said it. I was just in it to make some insane cash on a deal that was too good to be true." This, said with the tone of someone who rapidly realized it really was too good to be true. "Fucking Craigslist." Aman mutters to himself after.

Silas's smile doesn't change when Momo steps out of the back room, but suddenly it no longer seems to reach his eyes. Aberrant phenomenon my ass, he thinks. He wonders how many had died because of Suresh's bullshit. Because of the coverup he'd been a mouthpiece for.

The spike of speculation is brief, though; it collapses into a ghost of pain and an echo of grief almost as quickly as it had come. The dead are dead, and that won't change… and besides, it's not the same Suresh, any more than he's the same Silas.

That doesn't mean he has to like the guy, though. So when Mohinder makes his assertion, Silas doesn't rush to deny it. "Last time I checked," he says, still grinning. Let the guy squirm a little. Besides — there's got to be a reason that Odessa's got this guy cuffed, and it's probably not the fun kind of reason, despite the… obviously recreational nature of the cuffs themselves. Maybe that's a rationalization, but, like all the best rationalizations, it's got a kernel of truth in there.

He doesn't contradict Aman when he offers his explanation, though… just keeps his eyes on Mohinder. Studying him for a moment.

His gaze flickers over to Aman as the courier starts explaining what had happened; the smile fades, replaced by a look of concentration as he tries to figure out what Asi was doing. That expression doesn't change throughout — not when he reveals that Asi had shot one of her team members, and not when the courier suddenly falters mid-explanation, either… although it takes an effort not to shake his head at that one. Really, kid? You're having second thoughts now? he thinks, with a mix of subdued exasperation and a certain dry amusement.

"You know what they say about 'too good to be true'," Silas says once the courier's finished his explanation. There's some definite amusement at the idea that Asi picked this guy up off of Craigslist. Jesus, Asi. What are you even doing? he thinks to himself amusedly… though the thought has a definite tinge of worry to it, as well.

His gaze shifts back to Suresh. 'Package' my ass, he thinks, sourly. The courier's explanation sheds some light on her choice to omit that detail, at least… but now he has to wonder. Had Asi chosen not to mention that in the hopes of avoiding an unpleasant conversation? Or had she not been confident in her ability to keep their conversation secure? What are you even doing, Asi? he wonders, this time without any trace of humor.

He shakes the worries off. Worrying isn't gonna get the job done; he can do that on his own time.

"Alright," Silas says, turning his attention back to the courier. "I was never here. Neither were these two, of course; you'll probably want to go over this place with a fine tooth comb as soon as you can," he says offhandedly. "Check your bank account later, enjoy your beer," he says offhandedly, reaching over and brushing at the handle of the beer carton absently with his sleeve, as if to wipe away a stain… or maybe smear any fingerprints. Had he left fingerprints anywhere else? He doesn't think so, so he should be good on that front… which brings him back to the courier. He frowns, debating with himself. "When you're tryin' to figure out what to do with all that money… maybe think about a vacation, yeah? A nice long one. Somewhere far away." Might keep him alive longer; Redd's still out there, after all. And he probably views revenge as a sacrament or something. No job too small when it comes to evening the score, he thinks glumly… which is not a happy thought for his own future, but he'd always known that a reckoning couldn't be delayed indefinitely anyway.

With that, he turns to the door, padding over as quietly as he can manage and peering out the peephole to make sure there's no one lurking outside to ambush them — not probable, but rounding corners blind hasn't really worked out too great for him lately. When he's satisfied, he turns back to Des and Mohinder. "We've got places to be too. You ready?" The questions pitched more for Des than her plus one.

Odessa closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, as if she could breathe in the conflicting emotions around her. So much mistrust, surprise, and worry. It colors her expression momentarily, makes her pensive.

“He’s right,” Odessa tells Aman. “You should take your money and get out of town for a little while, probably. Wait for things to blow over.” She jostles the arm that’s connected to Mohinder’s to get his attention. “We won’t tell anybody you were involved, will we?” She definitely won’t. What Mohinder does after she’s been separated from him, however… Well, they all know she can’t make any guarantees on that front.

“I need to get my bag.” She looks toward the bathroom door, where she’s left the belongings given to her by Eve. “We’ll go get it.” Odessa turns to head in that direction, nudging Mohinder as she goes. “Come on."

Mohinder’s expression is a languid one and has been since explanations started flying. Most of them sailed over his sleep-deprived head, but he'd caught enough to have a jist of what's going on. “You do know I'm convicted of attempted genocide and the US government likely won't take too kindly to my continued abduction?” He asks of Silas, but at this point it all feels perfunctory. “Not that you likely care,” Mohinder adds quietly, sliding a side-long and wordless look to Odessa.

Mohinder doesn't say goodbye to Aman, doesn't introduce himself to Silas, and seems disinclined to engage with Odessa. As he is nudged ahead, Doctor Suresh stares down at his feet, then looks up to Silas and suddenly jerks a look over to Aman with a wild-eyed expression of bewilderment. “Did you say Craigslist?

It's all rhetorical. He looks away almost immediately upon answering the question, staring in confusion down at his feet. Nothing in this world makes sense to Mohinder anymore. Not least of all the machinations of criminals and the criminally adjacent.

"Okay, all your judgmental asses are getting old, definitely ready for you to go on and get out now," Aman remarks drolly in reply to Mohinder's open doubt, and what he suspects was side-eye from Silas. While Odessa's was a presence he felt conflicted about, Mohinder he was definitely ready to kick out the door now that the magic words have been said.

Check your bank account and enjoy your beer needed accompanied by victory music. Honestly.

The advice given to him to get out of dodge is met with a tepid sip of his beer. He thinks about it before glancing to Silas while he wipes down what he's touched, looking then to watch Odessa head for her bag with a momentarily sullen expression. "That sounds like a me problem, but thanks for the concern," Aman voices (un)helpfully. "I'll figure myself out if you worry about keeping Catholic Guilt over there from being his own worst enemy and getting himself killed for real this time."

He drinks again, conflicted about what else to do. This isn't a smooth goodbye for him, but it wasn't a smooth hello either, so it’s not like he has any impressions to worry about worsening. An offer to keep in touch is bit off. The point was not to keep in touch, after all. Aman sighs through his nose while he swallows his beer. "Anyway,” he supposes. “I'd say it's been fun, but it mostly wasn't."

It's not Silas' fault, but Aman's reminded of the particularly not pleasant parts of this adventure when he glances back to him, before he quickly, uncomfortably looks away again. “Take care, though.” is directed mostly Odessa’s direction.

Silas regards Mohinder with an expression of faint disbelief. Doing something to get you locked up for genocide is bad enough, but why in the fuck would you tell someone you just met about it? Just drop it like that? That's like shitting yourself and then smearing every available surface in the house with it. It's…

It's unprofessional. Aesthetically offensive.

Silas's mouth narrows into a tight line, a grim mood descending upon him; this job has actually gotten worse. Next time he sees Asi…

…he'll probably be too damn happy to see her again to even remember to bring this up. Ugh. And he's sure not going to talk about this over the phone. Ugh. Silas lets out a sigh.

The courier's assessment draws Silas's attention back to him; Silas regards him for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. It is," he says heavily. The courier's right; his life, his problems. Right about now Silas could almost envy the guy for being done with Mohinder… if it wasn't for the prospect of a future visit from Redd in his future. Ugh. "Good luck with it," Silas says, turning to study Mohinder. Not exactly the kind of package he'd been expecting to deliver. So… he's gonna have to adapt. Figure out how to get this very large and unprofessional package from Point A to Point B without getting picked up and taken in. What route to take, and how to go about it…

Slowly, Silas turns back to the courier. "Hey. Buddy. Before we go… you got a ball hat?" he asks, lips curving up into a broad grin. He has an Idea about how to increase their chances. There's still the matter of getting Mohinder to play along, but… he'll burn that bridge when he comes to it.

“We both know that wasn’t you,” Odessa fires back at Mohinder and his woe is me, I’m so bad routine. “The tribunal must know it, too, or that defense wouldn’t have gotten me off on that particular charge.” She could stand to sound a little less smug about that, especially given the givens, but sometimes Odessa just can’t help but needle her colleague when he’s like this. She’s just not the good person she wishes she was.

With her bag retrieved, she fixes Aman with a long look. He can feel her apprehensiveness and her concern for him. Ultimately, it’s Silas’ question that snaps Odessa out of that moment. “Oh!” She unzips the bag at her shoulder and rummages through with her free hand. “I’ve got just the thing…” The tip of her tongue sticks out between her lips as she concentrates on finding what she’s looking for by feel alone. “Aha!”

Triumphant, Odessa procures a battered ballcap emblemized with the logo for on old New York City roller derby team. “Here it is!” Turning to Mohinder, or more accurately, Mohinder’s head, she whispers an apology, “I’m sorry, dreamy hair.” Then, she reaches up and pulls the cap down over Suresh’s mop of dark hair.

“Are we ready?” she asks with bright eyes.

Aman arches an eyebrow at Smiles' request, but Odessa beats him to any sort of action. Somewhere between her genuine feelings of regret for committing the sin of covering over Mohinder's hair and the idea some kind of Clark Kent-very is about to happen, he loses his ability to take this all in deadpan.

"Really?" he voices, perplexed, exasperated, and for no one's benefit but his own.

Really really, Amanvir. Really really.

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