Being Wrong


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Scene Title Being Wrong
Synopsis Being wrong is a humbling thing, and after barely surviving his encounter with Gabriel and Eileen, Allen must admit that very thing to Edward Ray.
Date May 28, 2009

Textile Factory 17, Courtyard

Under drizzling rainfall, a single hand comes to scrape slowly over rough brick, fingers leaving a trail of scrapes against the stone. Heavy, plodding footfalls carry with reverberating thumps across the paved courtyard, until finally they stop. The hulking, metallic form like some great statue brought to life, comes collapsing down to its knees, cracking the pavement beneath it.

A crack of thunder rumbles overhead, light flashing across the darkened courtyard, revealing half of the statues horrible face. Bubbled and melted steel has cooled into a sloughed form of inhuman disfigurement. Iron melts in such a different way from flesh, leavig the distorted and warped countenance of Allen Rickham to look like a Picasso painting in what it has set into. His warped eyes stare up at the sky overhead, watching the rain fall down in monochrome haze through his further distorted sense of vision.

"Well," a small voice calls out from nearby, "was it worth it?" As Allen tilts his head down with a creaking groan of flexing metal, he settles his stare on a short and dark form approaching from across the courtyard. Under a black umbrella, the meek form of Doctor Edward Ray seems more foreboding than a person of his stature should. Lightning flashes across his face, half shadowed by the umbrella as he stands there out of the rain, his black wool jacket beaded with tiny droplets of moisture.

Allen has no response as his head comes to clunk back against the brick wall. "I gave you explicit instructions, Allen. I told you what needed to be done, I told you how this would all happen, and yet you— " Edward's words are cut off as the scarred man of iron lunges up from his seated position, fingers grasping at the air as he loses his balance and falls forward on his hands and knees, Edward merely stepping back twice calmly, exactly out of reach.

Large, expressive eyes stare down at Rickham with remarkable disbelief. "Are you done?" Edward's tone is like a parent brow-beating an unruly child throwing a temper tantrum. "Look at yourself, Allen. Look at yourself." Edward's eyes narrow. "If you had listened to me, if you had just stopped and listened for once in your life perhaps this wouldn't be what you are rewarded with." Lightning flahes overhead again, and in the prostrate position he is in, Rickham, is forced to see a reflection of his horribly disfigured face in the puddle of water below him. A wavering, pained groan comes out as he smashes one fist into the puddle, then hunches forward and presses his forehead to the ground.

"I still need you, Allen." Black shoes draw Edward closer, the only thing Allen can see of the man out of his bowed periphery. "But I need to know that I can trust you. There's still hope, Allen. Maybe not hope for you to ever lead a normal life, but there's hope for the you that belongs here." The umbrella is held out partially, letting the rain stop battering down on the bare metal frame of the partially warped figure. "I can help you get revenge on them both, Allen. But you have to be willing to listen." His brows crease together, head canting to one side, "can you listen to me, Allen?"

A slow, defeated nod comes from Rickham as his fingers curl against his palms, molten and warped fingertips now just blunted and deformed stumps missing their final knuckle. The silent acquiescence to Edward's request earns a quiet sound in the back of the mathematician's throat. "We're going to be clearing out of here shortly, we're so close to the end of this that I can taste it." His focus turns back to the textile building. "Everyone has followed their own threads, they've gone off to do exactly what they wanted to, and Roger Goodman is dead…" blue eyes flick back to Allen. "We've almost done it. But like I told Phoenix so long ago, to divert the course of the river you have to be able to move mountains."

Crouching, Edward rests one hand over his knees, the motion bringing him down to Allen's level. "Can you help me move that mountain, Allen?" His blue gaze is piercing, a steady and focused point of inspection that peers to steadily at the man of iron, waiting for the slow nod that finally comes. "Good, Allen, Good." Edward reaches out and lays his hand on the iron man's good shoulder. "Now, come pull yourself together and get inside… we've still got work to do."

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