C Is For Cookie


alexander_icon.gif cook_icon.gif helena_icon.gif

Scene Title C Is For Cookie
Synopsis Introducing Cook! Alexander and Helena wait on a contact who turns out to be a no show.
Date May 18, 2009

Brooklyn - Balor's Pissin' Eye

It's just another weeknight at Balor's Pissin' Eye, Broolyn's premiere Irish pub. Above the green salloon doors hangs a sign with the name of the place etched over it, and the face of a man-dog with only one, red, dripping eye.

Inside, it smells like a dingo took a shit and someone tried to cover it up with Lysol. There's a group of toughs in one corner throwing darts and playing pool, while a group of college students from somewhere on the other side of the tracks are having a pint. The owner of the establishment, Kieran Kiplan, is behind the bar, grabbing a young looking kid's ear and tugging up on it. "I DUN' TOL' YOU NOT TO START NUTHIN' AN' YOU WENT AN' START'D IT ANYWAY! S'AMMATTAH WITH YE, YAH TURD-FER-BRAINS!"

The kid? Is sort of hanging from his ear, tongue lolling out and a happy, brainless smile on his face. He looks like he's having fun.

It's seedy, it's Irish, it's perfect for a redheaded terrorist like one Alex Knight. He fits right in, even if he's PHOENIX rather than IRA. "Man. Talk about a wretched hive of scum and villainy," he sighs to the little blonde he's with. Luckily, the Moab escapees' images are not yet plastered on every screen, and throughout every post office in the land. So he's just another pale, scarred thug, Helena's apparent bodyguard. Though his voice is slowed by a deliberate Southern drawl. Not from around these parts, clearly.

The young woman at Alex's side doesn't seem to give off the girlfriend vibe, but nor is it exactly sister, either. Helena's in jeans and a tanktop that covers her shoulder-blade tattoo, with a trucker's hat pushed down on her head bearing the phrase 'Keep On The Grass'. She doesn't seem out of place for the bar, in so much as how she looks to fit in, though obviously neither of them is a regular.

"Look, see? Customers. Go." Kieran shoves the kid he was yelling at out from behind the bar, and the kid ambles over to Alex and Helena. He's not tall by any definiteion of the word except maybe 'not short', and Alex is mostly ignored. Because Helena's got, "Christ y'are stacked. 'm Cook, be yer waiter'r yer slave'r your spankin' monkey for th'evenin'." He waves his hand with a flare at an empty table.

"CLEAN TH' BLOODY TABLE FIRST, FUCKBUCKET!" Kieran tosses a rag at Cook, which Cook catches, and proceeds to use to wipe the table off, and pull a chair out for Helena.

Huge trac's of land, yes. Al….doesn't seem all that phased by that reaction. Hey, he'd be all over that if it weren't for Teo, Peter, and the whole comrade in arms thing. The redneck just looks dry, letting his lids half-veil his eyes.

Helena simply smiles up at Cook, absently thinking about how this kid would be Conrad's soulmate without any doubt about it. Except Conrad would probably die before calling her stacked. Wouldn't stop him with anyone else, though. "Why don't you start off by telling us what's on tap, Cook?" Helena takes a seat, grins briefly up and over at Alex, and doesn't sound like she's from Brooklyn. It's not exactly out of place in entire, but not from the borough.

Cook raises a brow a bit, and then slides a finger under his nose, sniffing wetly. "Uh. Y'got Guiness." Beat. "An' all th'other shite you yanks drink. Like, Budweiner an' Hineycan an' Dosexies…" Maybe something's wrong with his brain. For reals.

Arguably, something wrong with all their brains. "You got Red Stripe?" he wonders, offhandedly, planting his jaw on his palm, once he's established there's a sufficiently clean spot on the table for him to actually put his elbow.

Helena's lips twitch into a grin, nodding to Alex as she looks up at Cook. She'd be surprised if there was Red Stripe in an Irish bar (Hooray, beer!), but there's no sign of their contact yet, and one beer won't kill either of them.

"Table don't bite, mate," Cook offers with a sneering grin. Cook turns around and yells, "OI, KIERAN! Do we got Red Stripe?!" He waits for the inevitable no.


"Well fuck me senseless," Cook says in disbelief. He stops, looks at Helena, and grins. "No, seriously, fuckme senseless. Please."

"You're not my type," Al says, utterly deadpan. "Well, then, I'll have a bottle of Red Stripe."

"Me too." says Helena, smiling as if she gets that kind of talk thrown at her every day. She looks over to Al, and just laughs. "You know that kind of talk could get a table thrown at you, right?" she says to him.

"She's right, mate," Cook says to Al, looking at him very seriously. "I'm a sensitive lad, I am. Could hurt my feelings wit' talk like tha'." He turns his crooked grin on Helena. "Gotta card ya, lass."

The redhead looks sleepily amused. "Well, I suppose I could make an exception, if you're really hard up," he says, with a languid sigh. "And that's just a risk I'll have to take."

Helena smirks. "Aww, I love watching romance bloom." She digs into her back pocket by lifting her hips, and then produces a State of New York ID. The name says Evelyn Wozniak. The date of birth makes her twenty-one. The picture is definitely her.

Long distance to Hiro: Helena grins: Helena smirks. "Aww, I love watching romance bloom." She digs into her back pocket by lifting her hips, and then produces a State of New York ID. The name says Evelyn Wozniak. The date of birth makes her twenty-one. The picture is definitely her.

Cook takes the card and furrows his brow. "Ain't that a waste a time, I can't pr'nunce tha'." He flicks the card back at Helena and ambles off to get their beers. He didn't even check her age.

"And next thing we know, stormtroopers come through the door," Al suggests, watching Cook go.

Helena blinks at her card. "What's hard to pronounce?" she murmurs, curious. "'Evelyn'?"

Cook meant Wozniak. 411 can't give you a phone number with just 'Evelyn'. After a minute, Cook comes back with two Red Stripe, and sets them down on the table. "Anythin' else?"

Helena will know that look. That 'Alex is spoiling for a fight, and subsequently itching to say something stupid,' But doing time in the big house…well, that's a nudge towards maturity, and thus the redhead is silent for now.

Of course, Helena's kidding, she knows Wozniak isn't the easiest name to parse. "I think we're good, Cookie." she grins at him, reaching for her bottle. The cap's still on, so she's going to have to either do it with her hands, or use her shirt as a makeshift protection as she does so.

"Aw, are we on t'pet names a'ready, luv?" Cook grins at her. "You sure you don't need nuthin' else, then?"

Helena's bottle pops open of its own accord. Not flashily. His own bottle he opens in a perfectly mundane manner. Al looks bored, but he does deign to take a pull off the bottle.

Helena looks down at her bottle. Well look at that. "Pretzels." she decides, still smiling at Cook. "You don't object, do you? To the nickname, I mean." She looks over to Alex remarking, "Our date is late."

"Naw!" Cook says. "Girls back'ome used t'call me Cookie Monstah. 'Course, wadn't cookies I was eatin'." He grins. "Pretzels it is." He turns, and then she says their late is late and he giggles like a twelve year old as he walks away. "She rhym'd."

"That's New York for you," Al suggests, reaching into a pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"No kidding." She watches musingly as Cook departs, looking back to Al. "You still thinking of going to the doctor?"

Cook hops on a barstool and leans over the bar, shaking some pretzels onto a bowl and then bringing the bowl back over with a smile. He slides on the table. "There yah go, lass."

Alexander opines, as he cups a hand around the end of the cigarette, "'Ain't no other way to take care of the problem that I can figure," He tips his head back, blows a lazy ring up to join the haze already hovering under the ceiling.

Al opines, as he cups a hand around the end of the cigarette, "'Ain't no other way to take care of the problem that I can figure," He tips his head back, blows a lazy ring up to join the haze already hovering under the ceiling.

Helena makes an absent waft of her hand, and the funny thing is? When she does it, the smoke does seem to waft away from her. In point of fact, smoke seems to waft away from around her person in entire. "I'm not." she says with finality, and leaves it with that.

Cook pauses for moment, looking at Helena, this time lacking a lot of that lascivious leer. Then he shrugs. "Right then." He slides a hand over the table, taking both beer caps in his hand. He turns around and walks away, flicking a cap up into the air and catching it with his teeth. And swallowing it. Gulp.

"Why not?" Al says, cocking an eye at her over the beer bottle.

"Because I'm kind of attached to being me." Helena says. "And if I'm going to be sticking my neck out anyway, I'm damn well going to do it as me, and - did he just eat the bottlecap?"

"Looks like shit got real bad while we were away," Al says, propping his chin on his hand again. "Me, I'm still me, no matter what face I wear. And I'd rather not go to jail again because some ambitious housewife wants the reward."

Cook hops up on the bar counter, legs dangling and bumping into the side. He flips the other bottlecap, and catches it like it's a piece of popcorn he's munching on. KRWANCH. KRWANCH. Gulp.

"I look like my mother." Helena says quietly. She doesn't want to give that up. She blinks. "Alex, look at him. He's chewing on bottlecaps and eating them like they're crackerjacks."

"Indeed, he is. Don't stare, darlin', it's rude, not like you ain't seen no evo freaks before," Al says, tone completely matter of fact. "Take your pictures, honey, and have your face fixed. Next time they'll just take you out behind the chemical sheds and shoot you. Now, who is it we're waiting on, because honestly, I'm cheap and easy, so there's no need to spend further money to get me drunk enough to take advantage."

Cook glances around. He's out of bottlecaps. Kieran is looking away, so Cook leans over and takes the other man's pen from the counter. He sticks it in his mouth, and it cracks under the pressure from his teeth. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Gulp. Cook looks over, and catches Helena looking at him. He beams her a smile. His teeth are stained blue.

Helena shakes her head. "I'm not changing my face." she says, in a that's that tone. "I think it was supposed to be a food supplier, but I'm starting to think he's not coming." When Cook smiles blue at her, she's unable to help herself, she laughs.
Al shrugs. Her funeral, apparently. "Looks like not," he says, simply, already picking himself up from the table.

"… Cook, you seen me pen?" Cook turns to look over at Kieran and shakes his head, keeping his mouth shut. "S'amattah, lad? Cat cut yer tongue?"

Cook shakes his head again and hops off the counter, muttering: ""m goin' fer a fag." And out the pub he goes, finger in his mouth, scrubbing hard.

"I want to talk to him." says Helena, and looks over her shoulder. "Besides, what do you care? My dying isn't scheduled for this year." She smirks, and then says, "Will you come with me to go talk to him?"

"I don't think that schedule applies, girl," Al says, but he doesn't head any further towards the front door. "T ain't in love with me, I ain't gonna end up in some flyspot town on the coast…." he grinds out his cigarette in the already overpopulated ashtray.

Cook is outside, lighting a cigarette. It's not that he can't smoke inside. It's that he can't /eat/ inside. He glances around, makes sure no one's there, and pulls out an empty beer bottle from his pocket. He takes the neck between his teeth, and *CRUNCH*.
Helena smirks. "I don't know that T isn't in love with you. Just isn't with you right now." With that, she heads outside, trusting Alexander to follow her. Presumably like most service industry, he hangs out at the back of the bar, by the bins.

Al is the faithful scarred shadow, just like always. Sylar called him 'Fido', and it grows more apt day by day. "No," he says, tiredly. "He's not."

By the time Helena and Alex make it to where Cook is, he's had the bottle, two cans of something he found on the floor, and is currently eating… is that a cellphone?

"Might change. Is all I'm saying." Helena leaves it at that. "How does Verizon Wireless taste?" she asks Cook conversationally. "Can you hear me now?"

"Hell of a recycling program," Al notes, still lurking behind her.

Cook starts, and scuttles back when they show up. He's got the LCD screen stuck between his teeth and looks like he jut got caught with his dick in a slice of American Pie. "Whaddaya want then, eh? Can't a bloke eat in peace?"

"How long you been here, Cookie Monster?" Helena asks with a grin. "Oh," she says, gesturing at the cellphone, "Don't let me stop you, go on, I'm sure you're hungry. I mean in America," she continues. "How long you been here in America?"

Al finds a convenient wall to prop himself against. And obligingly hums the 'C is for Cookie' song.

Cook furrows his brow, and pops the rest of the cellphone in his mouth, chomping down on it. "Few months. Who's askin'?" He pushes himself to his feet.

"I hope you're being careful." Helena - err, Evelyn - says. "They can deport you if you aren't registered, and you'd at least qualify as a Tier 2." Her tone registers a certain amount of disgust, not for him, but for the whole process.

"I don't wanna think of what your life's like if you get constipation," Al says, thoughtfully. "Don't lack for fiber in that diet, I suppose."

"Whut, ye think I'm eatin' in the back alley offa pub next to a dumpster for me health?" Cook tips his head. "I'm simple, not stupid." Al gets a sharp grin, and Cook tips his chin, spitting a wire on the floor. "It all gets process'd, yeah mate? Jus
just like it's an apple or what have you."

Helena smirks. "Yeah, that's why you were eating bottlecaps and pens in the bar, because you're the soul of discretion."

Al flicks a look at Helena, then back at Cook. "Lucky you," he says, quietly.

"Well, sometimes I get tempted," Cook says, furrowing his brow and grinning at Helena. "I've got poor impulse control'n what not." He brushes his palms a bit, and then raises a brow. "S'wha' can I do ye for? You didn't follow me back 'ere jus' to show me you could."

Helena smiles faintly. "Poor impulse control?" She grins back at Al. "Doesn't he remind you of Elvis?" she can't help but remark, before looking back at him. "Do you give a shit?" she asks. "About what's happening to people like you in this country, or even your own?" Then, curious, "Do you know who Bobby Sands is? Michael Collins? Eamon de Valera?" Wow. A girl with the last name 'Wozniak' knows some jack and shit about Irish revolutionary history. But will Cook?

"No. He ain't threatened to rip off something vital. She's a little rabid animal," Al says. Not fond of Elvis, whomever that might be. And Helena's launched into her recruiting speech.

"Cain't say I ever felt much kinship wit' Bobby Sands. He didn't eat much his last days." Cook lifts both hands and waves around. "But me, I cain't stop." He sniffs a bit, and shrugs. "Don't care so much as ain't got a choice inna matter."

"You never did like her much." Helena observes thoughtfully to Alex. (A girl named Elvis? Whaaaat?) She looks back to Cook. "You've got a choice." she says. "It's just that the odds are a bit skewed. You could register and avoid deportation. You could keep on as you are, and hope you can dodge Homeland Security - and with the test kits? Better avoid getting arrested Mr. Low Impulse Control, because they will test you. And they'll register you, or deport you. Or maybe you can help do something about it." She turns, putting her hand in Alex's jacket to pluck out a pen and walks closer to Cook, "Gimme your hand."

Al acknowledges that point with an inclination of his head. And then peers at them more narrowly, as if wondering what she intends to do.

Cook isn't exactly scared of being deported, it doesn't seem. He opens his mouth, shifts his jaw a little, and when he closes it again, it cracks loudly. He stretches his hand out. "Careful, lass. You know whut they say 'bout hands what feed you."

"I don't intend on feeding you." Helena says, and takes his hand in her free one. With the other, she uses a pen to write a phone number in his palm. "You think you might want to help others who don't want to be kidnapped, tortured, tested, or treated like shit because of their DNA? Call this number. Leave the information instructed on the message and," she releases his hand, "Maybe I'll see you around." She turns to walk away.

There's only an unreadable backwards glance from Al, before he falls into step with her again.

Cook looks at the phone number on his palm, and then sticks his hand into his pocket. He pulls out a coin, and flips it. After checking what came out, he shrugs and pops it in his mouth. If she's not gonna feed him, he's gonna have to think about it a bit longer.

Helena looks over her shoulder. "Huh." she says, and digs into her pocket. Comes up with a spare button from some other bit of clothing. She tosses it to him, and with that, slips out of the alley with Alex.

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