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Scene Title Compromised
Synopsis All is not well within the Vanguard's ranks. The Wolf needs a favor from an old frenemy to make things right again. Regardless of whether he likes it or not.
Date January 11, 2009


Brooklyn is located on the westernmost point of Long Island and shares its only land boundary with Queens. The East river borders and defines the borough's northern coast, Coney Island, Brighton Beach, and Manhattan beach are to the south, and the Narrows separate it from Staten Island to the southwest.

Downtown Brooklyn is one of the NYC's largest business districts. Between the Bridge and Prospect Park, brownstones, townhouses, and high-end restaurants are dominant. The culturally diverse communities of Williamsburg and Greenpoint are snugged against the East River to the far north. Close by are far more criminally active neighborhoods such as Brownsville, Crown Heights, and Bushwick. Regardless of the social situation, the so-called Borough of Neighborhoods is packed to the gills in post-bomb NYC.

It's a cold day in Brooklyn. As in, really fucking cold. Snow fallen fresh from early morning to mid-afternoon has had time to churn muddy grey under the passage of many pedestrians on this particular strip of sidewalk. It's a popular block, likely because of the number of strip clubs and unaffiliated bars that line its ice-crusted edges.

The wind chill is enough to keep most people inside, nursing beers and ogling boobies. Deckard was one of them. Now he isn't.

Having perhaps detected a certain uncomfortable static tickle at the back of his neck, he's departed his club of choice. Gloved hands tucked deep into the pockets of his grey overcoat, he walks with his head down and his shoulders hunched against the weather. No sunglasses, and no real attempt at any kind of disguise, tonight. He's his unkempt, uneasy self with the addition of a mild limp and stitches etched in two neat tracks across the left side of his face.

A stream of steam wisps through the air down a long stretch of sidewalk. His lips purse for a moment as if in thought then another trail of steam is let out. His dark eyes focusing on the approaching Flint Deckard in the distance. The man is dressed in all black, a long black coat over his slacks and jacket. This man also is not trying to disguise himself. This man stands squarely in the sidewalk as if waiting for Deckard to see him.

This man, is the Wolf.

The sound Deckard's boots make against wet snow and concrete is appropriately akin to the gravelly scrape of shattered bone against concrete. It's as unpleasant to the ear as it is to the eye. Tactile sensation might have something to complain about too if it existed in his toes, but he didn't really hang around inside long enough for them to recover from the trek over.

The next gust brings with it a stinging sheet of frozen rain, or maybe old snow from a nearby rooftop. The bite of it into his face is enough to make him wince — and through that wince, notice someone standing on the sidewalk up ahead. Someone familiar. Twin flickers of ghastly blue confirm the inevitable. Someone familiar in the way that fails to inspire warm fuzzies. Dread seems more appropriate. Dread, fear, and maybe a hint of resignation when Deckard twitches right and ultimately lunges left. Into a dark alley, reaching into his coat after his gun as he goes.

A dry chuckle emits from the man's lips as he watches the man lunge into the alley. Shaking his head slowly the man turns, and rounds the corner. Slowly, just walking. The man's hands stuck into his pockets. He walks around the corner and out of sight. No sound of pursuit…

Deckard's sense of humor has taken kind of a beating lately. He scrapes into the alley, fumbles the gun out, and waits, breath huffing thick, white, and quick into the cold. The street is watched. He waits, and listens as well as he can with the sound of his own pulse drumming in his ears.

A long stretch of silence. No one's coming down that street. It seems like Ethan just up and left. Until of course,

"Drop it."

When Deckard is ready to turn around, the Wolf will be standing at the opposite mouth of the alley, in his all black glory. His own weapon trained on the man, silencer screwed on and everything. But for once, Ethan isn't with his superhuman cronies. The man is all alone. He takes a few steps down the alleyway towards the other man, his weapon trained on the other man the entire time.

Surprise spasms sharp up the stack of Deckard's spine, but reflex is halted before it can reach the comfortable weight of the .45 gripped in his hands. He doesn't look over his shoulder to see that he has a weapon trained on him.

For a few really long seconds, he doesn't do anything at all. But just when it seems like rash action might be imminent, he lets his left hand fall away. He clicks the safety back on, lets the heavy gun swing from the index and pointer of his right moved slowly out from his side, and…allows it to drop.

It clatters anti-climactically to a halt on the dirty asphalt a couple of feet away.

"It's been a while my son." Ethan says with a bit of a grin as he approaches slowly. "Kick it over." He commands casually, keeping the weapon trained on the man. "And anything else you 'ave on you. You know I'll find it anyway. Might as well get rid of it right now." He suggests as one foot lopes in front of the other slowly.

"How've you been, mate?"

At the directive to do the kicking thing, Deckard finally turns, if not all the way around. The pale glow of his eyes turns aside enough to track the weapon's fall and he steps in that direction, both hands held slightly up and away from his sides. It's shove-kicked over in Ethan's direction, scraping into a single spin before it grates to another halt, even less comforting than the first.

That done, Deckard continues to follow directions. Jaw hollowed and eyes averted down away from Ethan's gun and everything above it, he reaches back around under his coat after the thick grip of a closed knife. It's tossed over. So is the smaller one strapped to the side of his calf, and the can of mace in his pocket. It takes a minute to get everything.

How has he been? No answer. The stitches suggest maybe not so great.

His foot kicks the gun to the side as the man continues to approach slowly. "Come on now sweet'eart. You're suddenly not a talker?" The gun slowly goes down and is tucked away somewhere in the recesses of Ethan's person. Though that doesn't mean he's not ready with a weapon.

The mase is kicked to the side as well as the knives, his eyes constantly on Deckard. "Going to give me the silent treatment?"

"If you can't say something nice…" Deckard trails off, brows lifted. At the join of alley wall to alley floor, and the assorted soggy wads of garbage that occupy that space. Not at Ethan. His head stays somewhat bowed to that effect. Borderline cowering.

"So. Should I just kill you now or whot, Flint?" Ethan asks softly, moving forward into arms length of the older man. "You've proven you're not the most loyal business pa'tner, you know." A little grin. "You really tried to fuck me, didn't you Flint? You didn't fink I would find you? You didn't fink I would cut your fucking bollocks off when I did? Walk me through your thought process, boy."

Answers are slow in coming. Deckard's study of the ground is intent, no more or less when the view is partially obstructed by the long leg bones that accompany Ethan's nearness. "I sell guns." Or, at least, he did. Still does. Occasionally. He doesn't blink much, if at all, blue light dispersed hazily by the fog of his own breath. "There isn't anything in my resume about selling souls."

A long gaze is taken at the man's facial features, there is an extended period of silence as the Wolf watches the arms dealer, scanning the man from head to toe. Ethan takes a step forward, trying to find eye contact with the other man.

"I suppose there isn't." He murmurs, cocking his head to the side. "You were put in a difficult situation. You made a tough decision and 'oped for the best. I would probably 'ave done the same were I you." He says slowly then finally. "But I'm not you, am I Flint? I'm going to need another favor, boy."

Deckard's face is long. Even moreso now that he's trapped in a cramped alley with a terrorist who insists on calling him boy. All lines and angles and soon to be scars, with the manic glow of his eyes bright enough here to disrupt the shadows hollowed in under the ridge of his brow.

He's selectively responsive, giving away as little as he can to things he has nothing to say to. His eyes don't flick up the few degrees necessary to make unholy eye contact until he hears the word 'favor.'

"Things 'ave been compromised, mate. I 'ave to do get it all sorted to set things right. I'm going to need your 'elp bruv. I'll tell you, if I give you my word. I won't go back on it. But if you refuse 'elping me Flint." He gives a soft shrug of his shoulders.

"It won't be anything personal, right?"

The angle of Deckard's scruffy jaw tips up just enough to follow eye contact, morbid curiosity scratched out into crows feet and the knit of his brow. "What kind of favor?"

"I need a meet with your friend, 'elena Dean." He raises up his hands as if to show he's unarmed. "I'm not going to kill 'er." He says quickly. "I understand if it's 'ard for you to believe that. But I also need you to understand 'ow many people are going to die if you don't make this 'appen. I 'ate to start threatning family members, so don't make me, arright bruv?" Ethan asks, arching one brow at the other man.

Some fleet thinking is required to stay on top of this. Elias is organizing a coup with the Chinaman to stop the apocalypse. Now Ethan wants to meet with Helena to stop the apocalypse. Both without mentioning the other. Where eye contact was a reluctant thing at first, wide with fear, it's quickly been refined into more deliberate scrutiny.

"I've never seen her." It's an earnest caution of potential disappointment, accompanied by a bitter thickening about the muscles in Deckard's jaw at mention of family. "She doesn't trust me. Never has."

"Right then." Ethan says cleanly, going to pick up the can of mase he had kicked aside. It is placed within the coat, the knives are also taken. And then finally he gets to the gun. Popping out the clip, he empties it all over the ground, scattering them easily with his foot. Replacing the clip, he clicks off the safety and then points the gun at Deckard.


The gun was aimed at the ground near Deckard's feet. He had no intention of shooting the man. His brows arch as the gun goes off. "Keeping a bullet in the barrel can be dangerous, mate." He says with a little smirk. The gun is casually tossed to the other man as Ethan turns his back and makes his way for the mouth of the alley. "See you around, my son."

"Wait—" Ethan may not know there's one in the chamber, but Deckard is pretty averse to having it pointed at him despite the emptied clip. He flinches against the trigger pull, then winces against the flinch. His stitches really wish he'd stop doing that. Ears ringing shrill after the shot, he's slow to straighten, and doesn't even come close to catching the tossed weapon. He'll…get it in a minute.

"Wait," he says again, a little less panicked this time, if a little overloud owing to the fact that he can't hear himself that well. "How do you want me to contact you?"

"We'll be in touch, my son." Ethan says somewhat softly over his shoulder. "Just don't try to 'ide or it will work on my temper, you know?" With that, the man rounds the corner. And leaves.

"Who's 'we'?" Deckard tries after Ethan's already around the corner, voice lifted hoarse after him without much hope of an answer. He stands there and listens anyway, right hand eventually lifting to scrub at the frustration carved in around his mouth.

The gun is remembered after a hazy delay. He stoops to pick it up with a pained grunt, then sets to collecting whatever bullets he can reach without having to bend all the way over.


January 11th: Didn't Think You Were Capable Of Cursing
January 11th: Soiled Hands
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