Participants:
| Scene Title | Boys Will Have Their Toys |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Niles and Doyle cross paths in their secret evil hideout. They discuss the man who is pulling their strings. |
| Date | April 20, 2009 |
The remnants of a mechanical loom rise from the midst of the factory's floor to dominate it, abandoned when the factory was, towering spires of metal, slender dowels of wood, and long cables brushed with rust and the shattered dreams of industry. A single light illuminates the room from above, casting deep shadows throughout the strange place. Silence reigns here, where once noise and activity made it almost impossible to hear oneself think.
A lamp whose shade is stained glass has been plugged into the wall and set atop a small folding table beside a larger, thicker table where once skeins were unrolled. Its light illuminates the blocks of wood spread out over the table, one of which is now held in the hands of the puppeteer. He sits in a rolling chair bent over his work, a knife's blade catching the light as it peels away another sliver of wood, only to be set aside once more — thick fingers carefully plucking a small tangle of wire from beside him and placing it upon the block, reaching then for the hot glue gun. As he works, he hums to himself quietly, an old and unknown tune.
Just an old man, for the moment, bent over his work.
Niles' footsteps echo before his figure appears as a dark silhouette at the far end of the factory floor. He moves forward with the gentle rapping of shoes as he approaches Doyle and his workstation. The thirtysomething Brit is dressed in a pair of jeans with an untucked collared shirt and a three quarter length jacket. Today his hair is slicked back and he moves with easy confidence. Freedom looks good on him.
"Mister Doyle," he greets in a way that is almost disarmingly pleasant. "Anyone else around, or is it just yourself?"
"Oh," Eric replies in casual tones, transitioning smoothly from his humming to speech without even looking up, "Just you, me, and…" The glue gun's lowered to rest against the table, and he lifts the unfinished wooden head to turn towards Niles, steely eyes gazing through wire-frame glasses, "…Mister Bennet, here."
The incomplete creation is set down with care, and he flicks off the switch on the glue gun to let it cool down, turning the rolling chair with a lazy twist of its base towards the other man, long-neglected metal squealing faintly. He's dressed in a button-up shirt and suspenders, a faint smile lingering about his lips and one brow arching, "Looking for someone?"
"Not in particular. I had a free moment, thought I'd spin by. See if anyone had anything to report. I'm still pondering my…assignment." Niles looks towards the creation, chin lifted in curiosity. But he doesn't comment.
Boys will have their toys.
"What do you make of all this anyway, mm? It's very odd to be back here. It's as if I was just locked up yesterday."
"It's all the same to me, really," Doyle admits with a heavy sigh, shoulders sinking a bit as he leans his elbows on the table, his head dropping forward as he stares into the eyes of his creation, "I didn't really have much of a life to… go back to, I'm afraid. Even in this time, the theatre was burned down long ago." Silence for a few moments, he murmurs glumly, "The hot dogs are good in Central Park, though."
"So why are you helping out our merry band of misfits, mmm? What motivates Mister Doyle?" Niles takes a step to the left and folds his arms over his chest. "I've got much I want to reverse. My life was taken away from me at twenty one. Mister Petrelli certainly has much to be angry about. Young Reed has no body. April…" he hesitates. "…well. I'm sure she has her reasons."
"Why?" Eric's head lifts, a single brow arching as he regards the other man with one flat-gazing eye, his tone seemingly bemused, "Why— revenge, of course." A smile curves to his lips slowly, dreamily, twisting across his broad features and tugging up at one side in a smirk, "The Company took my life away long before the President's little… goon squad made their deal with me. They broke that deal, too. I expected them to, eventually." The smile fades for a heavy sigh, "I wonder where Odessa is. And Meredith…"
"It seems you and I have a common enemy. At this very moment, my young self is locked up on Level 5. Drugged. Solitary." Niles casts a look up to the high ceilings of the textile factory, then down to Doyle. "I remember the faces of a few agents that I would dearly love to kill."
"Level Five?" Doyle's hand lifts, rubbing against his throat thoughtfully in a slide through stubble that's just about to become something of a beard, his gaze hooding a touch as he considers this new information. Then he grunts out a facsimilie of a chuckle, his head shaking slowly, "Well, maybe I'll keep an eye out from you when I pay them a visit… depending on what the good Doctor wants of me." A frown, then, gaze raking towards the tower claimed by Edward Ray, "So what do you think his game is, mm?"
"I would appreciate it if you would see fit to set me free, yes. I would hope that's on Mister Ray's agenda, but in truth, I don't know what his angle is." Niles reaches into his coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
"He's won my attention at the very least for engineering our escape. But I'm not convinced he cares what happens to us. I believe he's far more interested in achieving his own ends. Not that I know what that is." He shrugs a shoulder and lights a cigarete. "You or I might be slated to die, to be sacrificed for his grand schemes. I don't think he'd give any of us a second thought."
"Would you?" A smirk from the puppeteer, combined with a brow's lift at the other man, and he reaches over to slide a sketch-pad to him as they talk. A mechanical pencil is clicked to life, and he starts sketching out what seem like fabric plans, murmuring, "I doubt you care about any of us. I doubt any of us… care about any of us. We're all still puppets, but who's pulling the strings, I wonder…"
"Believe it or not, I do care. I've never been a self-serving man, Mister Doyle," Niles draws from the cigarette and savours the niccotine. Regular cigarettes are a luxury, like so much else that comes with freedom. "I was young and misguided, but I have never been out for just myself. The Evolved will not be accepted. Not all of us. So we need to be the ones in power. Else there will always be a Moab, there will always be a Level 5 where the undesireables must go." He exhales a cloud of smoke. "That's why the future we came from cannot happen. Because people like you and I were still imprisoned, still seen as a threat because of what we can do, not what we did. Worse men than you and I were pardoned because their abilities weren't seen as such a large threat."
"They've never seen half of what my ability can do," Doyle says in rather derisive tones, a flicker of anger behind his eyes though he doesn't look up from his sketches; a tiny suit designed on paper, with folds and tabs in all the appropriate places, a garment for a puppet rather than a man. Appropriate, given who it's for. More quietly, "I just wanted to be left alone. In my theatre, with my puppets. I made people happy. I made them laugh. Some of them. But there were always…" A shake of his head, "It doesn't matter."
Niles is a fairly good judge of people, for all his own view towards the world is a little bit on a slant. The last thing he wants to do is get under the puppeteer's skin. "It's a cruel world," he says plainly. "One in which we rarely get what we want. But we have a second chance. The machinations of Edward Ray will only turn as long as we all cooperate. I think it best if we all keep a watchful eye for his motivations, to be sure we want to continue following his instructions."
With that, the tall Brit turns in preparation for taking his leave.
"Yes, yes," Eric dismisses, "We'll all be good puppets, dancing on our strings. We'll see." A faint smile, as he pauses, pencil on paper, "Good night."
"And to you," says Niles. He closes the door politely behind him.
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