Participants:
| Scene Title | Bodega Life |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A chance encounter between two Travelers leads to unexpected opportunities. |
| Date | January 16, 2020 |
Bodega de La Vega, Phoenix Heights
There are two approaches to going unnoticed. The first is to walk where no one else is — if there's no one about to see you, you obviously can't be observed. The second is to walk where everyone is, and blend into the crowds.
The drawback to the first approach is that it relies on being able to notice anyone who is tailing you, and shake them off accordingly; it's a strategy Silas has put to good use on occasion, but the whole 'seeing who is tailing you bit' isn't always a given when the person you're worried about is Redd. So it's the second strategy that Silas is using today. Masking his presence, slipping from one cluster of people to the next, dressing differently — today he's wearing a faded baseball cap, an old brownish coverall, and a battered jacket that's faded to an unfortunate shade of bile green. Going to the market is an adventure these days. Not Red Hook — that's a little too crowded — but there are other places to shop. It's just a matter of knowing where to look.
Silas does. He'd made it his business to know the ins and outs of the Safe Zone — what alleys went where, where you could hole up in a pinch, where you could go to buy food and necessities — and that knowledge is serving him well. He's found a bodega where he can grab some supplies — toilet paper, bottled water, food, coffee, and the like — and is currently browsing the store's small deli section. He doesn't have a lot of time to linger, but he intends to grab everything he needs and get out in one go.
“Aw, man…” There’s a familiar voice that reaches the man’s ears from an aisle over, “…they got all this other stuff, but PEZ didn’t survive the war?”
It’s a voice that Silas hasn’t heard in some time, but one that’s nonetheless easily identifiable as one of his fellow Travellers.
“Fine,” Eric Doyle mutters sourly under his breath as he scoops up a bag from the shelf, “Gummi bears it is, then, but I don’t have to like it. Man, I’ve gotta find a way to buy snacks from those Yamagato people, I bet they have all the flavors of Kit-Kat.”
He’s dressed in a flannel jacket to ward off the chill of winter, over a black polo shirt and jeans; a grey knit cap that doesn’t quite match the rest of the outfit is perched atop his head, but these days mismatched clothes are common. Thrift stores and scavenge-then-mend is more common than manufactured garments in the Safe Zone. He’s alone, his running commentary seemingly to himself, unless there’s a second invisible guy in the bodega.
That voice. Silas knows that voice.
He goes still for a moment, the gears in his head turning. Ling turned out to be alive; seems a fair enough bet that Doyle, too, could've survived his trip through the backstage.
But. This could also be the native Doyle. Supposedly, as far as Silas had gathered, he'd died (hence the Eric Doyle Memorial Library), but someone surviving a seemingly certain death isn't exactly unthinkable, either; witness the once and future explosion of Eve Mas.
So. What to do?
Find out.
Silas grabs the egg salad and the wrapped sandwiches he'd been eying, tossing them in his basket before he turns and heads down an aisle behind Doyle; he adjusts his cap, tugging it down to hide his eyes a little better, then lifts his shroud, out of Doyle's line of sight. From there, he quietly moves around to the candy display Doyle is eying. "'Scuse me, sir," he says politely, smiling and gesturing towards some lemon drops.
“Hn? Oh, sure,” replies Eric, taking a step out of the way before actually looking at the other man. He pauses a moment, then a grin splits his broad face, “Shit, Si…iii….ohn? John, is that you?”
Aliases, Doyle, he chides himself inwardly, one hand coming up to tug the edge of that knit cap more into place, regarding the other man to see if he recognized him back. In theory there’s another Silas out here somewhere too, right?
Silas glances over at Doyle from under his hat, lips curling up in a grin to match the other man's; the fact that he's got a grin like that suggests that this is the Doyle he remembers, and not someone who associates with his alter-ego. "Long way from the Stormfront," he says, which should be enough of a confirmation on his part as to his identity; he extends a hand towards Doyle for a handshake. "I thought you hadn't made it; glad as hell to see I was wrong. How've ya been…?" he asks, his words taking on a quizzical note at the end as he realizes that while Doyle knows his alias, he doesn't know what the puppeteer's going by on this side of the Looking Glass just yet.
A beat passes, and then Doyle catches on to the trailing question. “Ah, Jason,” he clears his throat, straightening before reaching out to clasp the offered hand firmly in his own larger one, “Jason Tyminiski.”
A crooked smile lifts up at the corner of the man’s lips, “I’ve been okay. The girls are still back in Kansas City, they’re going to school— thinking about coming here when they’re done, maybe start up a business. So I figured I’d come ahead, scout things out— I mean, they don’t want me hanging around while they’re being college girls probably.”
For one thing, he might murder their would-be boyfriends.
“What about you, how’re you settling in— did you and Soleil ever get that theatre set up?”
Silas laughs at the college girls crack, genuinely laughs, and for a moment he's able to forget his current problem. Unfortunately, it's short lived. "Ah, well. We got the boat, started working on it. Amelie, though… got caught up in some stuff." It's not a happy memory, but he chuckles anyway.
"And then I guess you could say I got caught up in some stuff." He pauses, then gives Doyle a lopsided grin. "We were doing a haunted pirate ship on Halloween; limited time engagement, come one, come all. It was gonna be our big introduction." The grin fades, leaving behind a melancholy expression. "The, ah, other guy with this face… had concerns," he says quietly. "Came by with a gun to bring them to my attention. I was the only one seriously injured, at least, but the grand opening is… postponed. For awhile." He can't quite bring himself to say indefinitely.
“Oh, shit,” Eric’s smile falls from his face like a curtain collapsing, and he leans in a little, “Are you all right? Do you need anything— I mean, is there anything I can do to help?” His hands spread a little, “I mean, either with the theatre or— well. That guy.”
“I mean, all us… long-distance travellers need to stick together, right?”
Silas's smile returns a bit at Doyle's comment on sticking together. "Right. That we do," he says, nodding agreement. The Travelers have shed blood and endured loss; they've stood united through labors and dangers, and survived an ordeal that few could hope to understand. They're a crew; true, they've only sailed on one voyage, but what a wild and terrible one it had been.
The question of help, though… that merits a longer consideration. Back home, in the Pelago, Doyle had been known as an effective defender to say the least; every once in awhile some new batch of real assholes would show up on the scene and take a crack at the Lighthouse, and every time it'd gone the same way. There's no doubt in his mind that Doyle's help could prove very useful against the likes of Redd… but Silas is also aware that going up against his evil twin is a very dangerous game, and Doyle deserves a chance to try and build something of his own here, too. And that's without going into the matter of Mala and Denisa. No, Silas doesn't want to ask the other man to take that particular risk unless he absolutely has to.
The theatre, though… hmm.
"You know, I might just take you up on that," he muses aloud. "The theatre's just sitting fallow right now, we're still not ready for opening and that's… not a good thing," he muses.
“If there’s anything I can do to help get the theatre up and running, then… well, I’ve got some experience with that,” Doyle admits with a lopsided smile, one broad shoulder lifting in a shrug, “It’s been a long time, but I’m pretty sure the old set-making skills are still buried in this old noggin somewhere. And if that asshole with your face shows up…”
Hands spread, one holding a bag of gummi bears, “Well, problem solved, right?”
He opens the bag right there in the store absently, tossing one into his mouth and chewing contentedly, talking around the chewing, “Seriously, anything you need. I’m happy to help.”
Silas is silent for a moment, then he nods. "I don't think he will. But if he does…" he gives a wry smirk. "If you get a chance to take him alive, great; I'd like to have a chat with him. If not…" he trails off, shrugging. Problem solved.
His mind shifts to the other question; he mulls it over for a moment, then nods. "If you want to see what you can do on the theatre… the boat's out in Bay Ridge. I'll make a few calls, tell the security guys you're gonna be dropping by; they should be able to unlock things for you." He'll have to use another burner for that, but oh well; he's got a few at this point. "Take a look, see what you think; hopefully everything's still in the office, notes and all. The timeline's wrecked at this point, but it should give you an idea of what I was planning. I'll give you a call at the boat sometime next week, and we can talk shop," Silas says with a grin. "Sound good?"
“I guess I could have him stand in a closet until you get there,” Eric says with a careless shrug, as if he were discussing where to shelf a selection of mugs, “Sounds like a plan. Oh! We’ll need a code phrase so I know it’s you, and not your evil twin.”
He grins jovially at the idea, eyes twinkling, “So pick some way to say hello that he wouldn’t know, and— oh, right.”
A hand ducks into his jacket, and he thumbs over the screen, “Let me give you my number.”
Silas looks thoughtful at that. "Good idea." He thinks for a moment. "If I'm calling, I'll ask 'how's pool going'…"
He trails off for a moment, then nods. "And if I ever drop by and you want to be sure it's me… tell me there's word from home. I'll ask if there's anything from the Captain of the Cerberus. That one hasn't been spoken aloud that I know of, so it should be safe." It might seem a bit paranoid, but the look on Silas's face shows that he is taking it deadly serious.
At the offer of Doyle's number, Silas nods, setting his basket down and pulling a pen and a battered notebook out of a pocket to jot down Doyle's number. "Alright, ready."
The number’s given - Doyle doesn’t ask for one back, since the man’s being so serious about keeping a low profile - although he has to look at the phone to find it, and he’s a bit awkward with it at first. Smartphones weren’t a technology that he had a lot of experience with still, and he’s never been at the cutting edge of things at the best of times.
He’s a classicist.
“Sounds good,” he affirms with an easy bob of his head, “Securities protocoled, communication exchanged, work acquired! And to think…”
He grins, “I was just in here looking for PEZ.”