Participants:
| Scene Title | Could've Gone Better |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Magnes has a hard time of things when the Rookery proves to be a riskier environment for delving deeper into into the mystery of Refrain than he might have hoped for. |
| Date | October 1, 2009 |
Two minutes, a block and one dark alley way off an exchange that would be hard to mistake for anything other than exactly what it is, Deckard is on his way out of the Rookery when he reappears on the cracked sidewalk again. Shabby black overcoat slung loose around his shoulders against the cold, he keeps his head down and glances over his shoulders often. There's a metal briefcase at his side, latches locked fast, and from above it's easy to see precisely how grey he's gotten in the months since he was last accosted from on high.
Magnes is once again in all black attire, including his black mask and the voice distortion collar that holds it on. Once he has a good idea of what direction Deckard is going in, he drops into an alley, draws one of the glocks at his side, then extends his arm to aim at the older man the second he comes into view. "Look to the ground, put your hands up, and step into the alley." he commands with all the authority of a man with a gun and a deep electronically-distorted voice.
Deckard freezes. Adrenaline commands it, just like it automatically cracks his glare up into acute focus on the source of voice and mask and glock, which is precisely one of the things he was just told not to do.
Whups.
A little at a loss from that point on, and presumably not all that used to being robbed himself, he looks sideways before he takes his first dragging step towards the alley. His left hand goes up away from his side first, briefcase handle hooked neatly at the V of thumb and palm. It's the right that becomes a problem. Slower to comply and slower still to raise up as directed, it only makes it a few spare inches before it strikes into his coat after the semiautomatic holstered at his side instead.
Magnes learned a lesson a while ago, a lesson he doesn't quite remember the details on, but he knows it involved testicular torsion and not hesitating. His gun instantly aims at Deckard's arm moving for the automatic, then fires, aiming right for the shoulder. "You don't wanna do that. Now heal yourself and then we're gonna talk."
Go figure, the back of that same goddamn shoulder is already blown out the back of Deckard's coat. Flesh and bone spatter and fabric doesn't so much as lose a thread, save perhaps to the blood that's seeping quick and hot through the collared blue shirt beneath. Already halfway out, the gun tips harmlessly off the threshold of holster and clatters to concrete with the safety still on.
Meanwhile Deckard stands slightly hunched at a vacant blank, eyes too clear in shocky, rattled resentment for the betrayal of his shoulder and the guy with the gun being too fast and this entire fucking situation which did not turn out this way at all when it ran through the back of his head three seconds ago. The suitcase drops (thunk) after the gun and a shuddery breath so that he can grasp dumbly after the extra bone-sharded orifice he just acquired. He doesn't say anything, but the look on his face says things like jerk and asshole and what the fuck ow.
"First question, and please start healing because the last thing I wanted to do tonight was shoot you, I'm sorry for that." Magnes sounds genuinely sorry, because the man did heal him, and shooting him in the shoulder is a shitty way to repay it. "I thought better I shoot you in the shoulder than you kill me when I didn't intend to kill you to begin with. So, back to that first question. What's your relationship with John Logan? The truth, please, I know when someone is lying."
Breathe. Flint has to remind himself once questions start rolling and static buzzes electric white in his peripheral vision. He blinks hard, squints at Magnes, and blinks hard again, but healing begins at an insecure waver anyway, suturing with exasperating lethargy at the ruptured artery that's ghosting his long face paler by the second. "My relationship with — Logan? We don't have one. He's just…I mean. I mean…" Plat, plot go bits of coagulated jelly onto the pavement at Deckard's boots and he knits his brows a little helplessly at the alley wall. It's possible he's having some trouble focusing.
"I believe you." Magnes answers quite easily. It matches up with what Logan says, well, somewhat, but he believes it. He may be attempting to feign a lie detecting ability by sounding so confident, but he continues. "What's your connection to Refrain? Are you aware of any suppliers and can you give me names?"
"Great," says Deckard, grating enough to denote that there is still room for thought in his anemia-fogged brain. It's nice to be trusted. Meanwhile, after another drifty look sideways, he bends one knee and sort of — half. Kneels. Sort've half — and then tips off balance the rest of the way. Somehow or another he manages to land on the intended target of his ass despite his legs unwillingness to cooperate, good shoulder slumped up against the wall so that he can resume eyeing Magnes balefully from below rather than slightly above. "I dunno."
"That's not a real answer." Magnes is quick to point out, his gun moving to aim at a knee, but he doesn't fire, he's just attempting to be threatening. "Let me be more specific. Are you a supplier? And what were you doing at the boat the other night?"
Deckard and Magnes are in an alley on the outer fringes of the Rookery: Deckard on his ass against the wall pale and bleeding thick through a fresh bullet hole in his coat, Magnes masked and pointing a gun nearby. A steel briefcase and another gun are on the ground somewhere around the region of Flint's outstretched right boot, and he flinches in on himself when the gun takes aim at still another joint that he tends to use in day to day existence and doesn't really want to feel shatter all to pieces.
Accelerated pulse and cold sweat aside, there isn't any panic to be found in the miserable rough of his voice. He's tired and doesn't want to be here and — something else. It's getting hard to remember all of the things he wants to complain about. "No." No, not a supplier. "I…owed him. S'cocaine I'd bought. He said I could pay him in time. Why do you care? …Jesus." His shoulder.
"Blurgh!" That's a retching sound. Someone puking out their guts. To follow the sound, one will find a girl near the corner in the alley, grasping the wall as she pukes up whatever she's eaten in the past half an hour or so. She's wearing dirty black jeans and a grey sweatshirt, her hoodie pulled up and a few loose strings of hair falling down as she lets it all out.
Lola galnces up at those present, lifting a hand in salutation. "Don' mind me. Blurgh!!!"
"It's relevant to my interests. And you know, cocaine is very bad for you, especially when you work up a large debt in the process." Magnes momentarily eyes the case, then Deckard again. "I can make this all go away if you're sick of being a slave to Logan's debt. How would you like to put John Logan in jail?" Then his second glock is drawn and aimed at Lola quite quickly, backing up a bit from Deckard so he can keep them both in his vision. "Sit eight feet away from him on the ground."
"You just shot me," pointed out at an incredulous (and maybe slightly accusatory) grouse for Magnes's lecture on the dreary side effects of cocaine usage, Deckard curls blood-blackened fingers through the tatter of his coat and continues to do what he's doing. Namely a lot of broody hunching and unappreciative, baffled sideways looks at the masked son of a bitch doling out orders. "I'm not a slave it was a one time — " Blurgh!!!
Lola's vomitous entrance earns an over the shoulder glance in her direction, and Flint peers woozily for a few seconds at the splash and plop of lunch and dinner against the alley floor. One eye squinched shut against the stabbing pain involved in even that much movement, he takes a beat to catch his breath before suggesting a wheezy, "Can we make it ten?"
Lola lifts her head, wiping her mouth on the back of her head as her dark eyes look over the cloaked Magnes after his order. She chuckles. "Fuck ya, sugar. My bones hurt. Didja even know that was possible? It's like they're on fire. So ya just…" she gestures vaguely again. "Go ahead an keep doin' what yer doin' I'll just…be right here…catch my breath an be on my way."
She isn't so cruel as not to notice Deckard, however. The man gets a polite wave and a cordial, yet southern, "How're ya doin?"
Staten Island's Rookery neighborhood has a very distinct smell, and while it's not something you'd want to bottle and sell on a perfumer's market, you could — fermented alcohol and the smell of sizzling meat wafting out from the Sheung Wan's open kitchen form its top notes, while vomit, stale urine and the occasional whiff of sour tobacco smoke make up its middle and base notes, combining together to create a harmony of scents that a sewer rat might find attractive.
It might come as a surprise to Magnes, then, when the aroma of Turkish rose oil, myrrh and cedar blows into the alley and curls at his nostrils. A moment later, the staccato click of a hammer being pulled back reaches his ears, and a slim shape steps into view, moving around Lola's crumpled form with a pistol in hand and boots on her feet that crunch through broken glass. "Excuse me," Eileen murmurs thickly to the other woman.
Magnes still keeps a pistol on Deckard, but Eileen has hers on him before he can take his other from Lola. "My first Mexican standoff." he audibly notes, realizing that he may recognize Lola from somewhere, but he definitely notices Eileen. "Eileen, don't worry about this, I don't plan to kill him, I'm trying to get him to help me with something." He makes sure to use her name, to hopefully foster enough curiosity to save his life, then adds to Deckard, "Why haven't you healed yet?"
"Never better," bit off in a thin flash of teeth against grizzled grey and undead pallor, Deckard gives Lola the kind of look that might've given her cancer six months ago. Unfortunately for him, these days a dirty look is just a dirty look, and propped up against the alley wall like he is now all warm and sticky with blood it's not like he's going to make it any further than that in his irritation.
But lo! Maybe he won't have to. He's still giving Lola the stinkeye when Eileen pushes through from behind her, slatted ribs still lifting out and falling in too quick for recognition not to be a part of the relief that clouds muddled into the fuzzy lines around his mouth. A sane person! …Sort of! And she brought a gun.
Then Magnes is talking again and he has to look back at him, blue eyes bright from beneath the cranky hood of his brow. "It's not that easy. Idiot."
Attention is off of Lola long enough for her to remove the FBI-rated handgun from the back of her pants. She swings her arm forward, and a shot is fired before her gun is even leveled - and it nails the gun in Magnes' hand pointed at her, ricocheting up into the air and into outer space, perhaps to tag some poor hobo on teh way down. Who knows. The point is that Magnes no longer has a gun pointed at her.
"Sorry," she says, sincerely. "Just…guns an all, don' like 'em pointed at me." She even begins to put her own away unless there's more of a threat. Turning, Lola looks to Eileen. "I saved you one an everything, if htis is all…personal…oh god the pizza…" And she's clinging to the wall and puking again.
The list of people who know Eileen by name and can identify her at a glance is short and sweet. Smaller still is the number of individuals on that list who might hold Deckard at gunpoint. Unfortunately, this doesn't work out to Magnes' advantage — or at least not in the way that he might've hoped. Rather than slow down, stop, and lower her pistol as she takes stock of the situation, she speeds up, propelled by a series of long, powerful strides.
He's not the person she thinks he is, and as she approaches, she raises her gun arm not to shoot but to strike, though the blow itself never connects.
A flinch shivers through her frame at the crack of the gunshot instead, which does cause her to come to an abrupt halt in a way that Magnes' use of her name did not, gravel ground into the asphalt under her heel as she pivots, levels her weapon with Lola and squeezes off three shots in quick succession. So much for excuse me.
Magnes' eyes widen, though no one can actually see that, knowing full well that Eileen's gonna smack the shit out of him with a gun, but then his gun gets shot out of his hand, the one aimed at Lola, and he's surprised by the fact that he still has fingers. Eileen squeezes off shots and he's surprised yet again, but he can't really argue with the fact that she's shooting at someone who just shot at him. "Crap, this is not what I was aiming for. Why can't people just talk instead of shooting each other?" He sounds genuinely frustrated by the clusterfuck of a situation, and the entire time he keeps his gun trained on Deckard, since Eileen seems to have Lola covered.
Holy god now more people are shooting. Back against the alley wall somewhere near the middle of it all, still seated with one leg bent and the other stretched out long ahead of him, Deckard lefts his bloody left hand to shield it instinctively over his head against muzzle blasts to the right and then back from the left. His own gun is on the ground out of easy reach, metal briefcase bomp-bomping against the side of his boot while he bleeds and wheezes and grits his teeth and all around pretty much hates the fact that he exists right now.
Lola is in the middle of apologizing for shooting Magnes' gun and putting her own away when two of the three shots fired from Eileen's weapon hit her. The first rips through her side, luckily missing the major organs, but giving her a nice gash along her hourglass shape. Her arm reaches across her body as she starts to stumble back, and the second one hits her, tearing up her right arm. The cajun woman yells in pain, a quick, surprised yell as she stumbles a few tired steps back to the wall, crumpling to the gorund (and luckily missing her puke).
She looks up at Eileen, her dark eyes laced with hate, confusion, and…well hate and confusion sort of have a 50/50 ratio. "What the fuck, sugar?" She asks, looking down and moving her hand to see blood quickly staining her sweatshirt. "What the fuck is the matter with ya?" Her voice is soft, eerile calm as she bleeds on the dirty pavement. "I'm bein' hunted by gang, threatened by serial killers, goin' through withdrawal an that ain' enough so ya shoot me?" She looks to Magnes. "Shit, kill 'em both….see if I care," She's more focused on her BLEEDING!
The woman who shot first is asking Eileen what's wrong with her. The temptation to pull back on that trigger one last time is strong, but it's also tempered by the knowledge that Lola is one of Adam's — or used to be. She's of more worth alive than dead, and in the stilted moments that follow, Eileen lowers her weapon, though she does not take her eyes off the Cajun bleeding out onto the alley's greasy floor. Torn between a need to disarm Lola and her desire to be closer to Deckard and see to his injury, she stays right where she is, both hands on the weapon's grip as she watches Magnes in her peripheral vision. "Take off the fucking mask."
Magnes suddenly reaches out and touches Eileen's stomach, which would quickly cause her to fly against the wall of the alley across from him, in the arms stretched out Sylar-headcutting position. "This situation's already gone south because you two got in the way. I was making progress with him and now you two are shooting and ruining things. I'll take off my mask for you when the King of Swords is around." He sounds very annoyed, eyeing Lola for a moment, "I'll get your wounds tended to, just keep your gun down and I'll keep mine off you." he requests as he approaches Deckard, reaching out to grab his shoulder and try to force his skin to press together with gravity so the bleeding can temporarily stop, or at least considerably slow down. "I need you to try and heal yourself so you can heal her. I didn't mean for things to get this out of hand."
Deckard tries to flatten himself against (and perhaps through) the wall at his back once Eileen's gone flying and Magnes is on the approach, but when it comes to phasing, he got the short end of the genetic stick. There's nowhere for him to go and he doesn't get further than a lean sideways before there's a hand at his shoulder and he's making a sound like water hitting a superheated pan, all hissing and steam and bared teeth that look to be seriously considering sinking themselves into Varlane's wrist.
"Fffffffffuck," is what it resolves into once he's sucked enough breath back in to support cursing, left hand clawed open away from his side. "I'm trying. I'm trying. Merde — don't touch — just — give me a minute ok?"
Lola is more than a little happy to see Eileen get thrown about like that. "REally, sugar?" She asks of Magnes. "Ya brought a ski mask an two guns an a shot feller to Staten an ya expected this ta go as planned?" She shakes her head, moving along the wall to try and stnad, although the pain is all over her face and in the soft cries that erupt from her as a result. "Dumber'n a bag a rocks people are in this city. I was tryin' ta disarm ya so ya didn' make it worse, but nooo! Little lady here thinks she's gotta shoot everyone what do soemthin' with half a lick a sense. I'mma go get drunk or somethin…." In perfeclty unimaginable pain, Lola moves to try and start to slink off, but she's weak and there's…well…pain.
Falling into a wall is not quite the same as being flung into one, but it produces the same effect. The breath leaves Eileen's lungs in a mighty rush and stifles whatever sound of pain she might have made when her body collided with the brick. The crack of her head against it floods her vision with darkness and dulls perceptions, though not so much that she fails to recognize the queasy feeling turning over in the pit of her stomach as something she experienced the last time she grappled with Varlane, and while she lacks a voice with which to speak, her lips still purse to form his name in silent accusation. Lola goes ignored, at least for now, or maybe this has more to do with the fact she's pinned to a wall than it does a conscious choice.
"Fine, that should slow the bleeding, I wasn't trying to hurt you, I was trying to make sure you don't bleed to death." Magnes sounds as if he's starting to panic a bit, raising from Deckard to head over to Lola. "I'm gonna slow your bleeding too, alright? So don't panic if it hurts a little. He'll heal you when he's done healing himself, just stay still." he softly suggests, cautiously holding his hand out for her arm. "I messed up so bad. I'm sorry Eileen, and Flint Deckard, and you." the 'you' being Lola as he moves to start forcing the skin around her wounds to press tightly together with gravity, which might be quite painful, but at least the bleeding can slow to almost a stop. "God I didn't mean for any of this to happen…"
Tension slacks out of Flint's wire-strung neck and shoulders when Magnes moves off to play doctor with Lola instead, slick sheen of sweat and pale eyes roving away at a stuttering flicker from floor to opposite wall when they catch on Eileen. If there's a connection to make with her current predicament, he fails to make it. Between trying to fix himself and enough bloodloss over the last few weeks to fill up an entirely new Flint Deckard, he's operating somewhere belooow optimum capacity.
But he is healing. Slower and more painfully than he should be, maybe, but he's still alive, and there's an occasional click at the concrete at his back where spare bone splinters are pushed out of gored muscle to make room for cleaner stuff.
"TOuch me, boy, and I will end you," Lola says, darkly, moving around the corner. She finds her way just out of sight and sinks to the floor, curling up in pain and holding her bloody wounds. Pain, pain, pain that's all she has is pain. Everything burns, everything hurts….her eyes flutter, she stays awake but oh pain…
"Wai—" Magnes reaches out, but Lola's already gone, Deckard's healing himself, so he walks over to Eileen, standing in front of her with a sigh. He touches her stomach, switching her vertical horizon back to normal, though she's still rather stuck against the wall. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, I was just afraid you might start shooting again. Please tell me you're alright?"
Back at the far wall, Deckard still is sitting, still is sitting, shoulders sloped free of their residual iron clench. He isn't finished, but his bleeding is down to a sleepy seep, his eyes are heavy lidded and his jaw is tilting down loose against the swivel of his neck. The briefcase finally tips away from the brace of his boot and onto its side with a solid thunk.
Eileen locks eyes with Magnes in response, saying nothing. Judging by the slow rise and fall of her chest, she's caught her breath and appears mostly unharmed except for a dribble of blood oozing out through her hair past her left ear, but that's to be expected.
"I'm sorry…" Magnes raises a hand, touching her stomach to release her from the wall, making sure he's there to catch her if she doesn't have her balance. "You're my friend, I consider you my friend, I'd never hurt you on purpose, I just, I was panicking…"
In the background, Deckard has enough energy left in him to roll his eyes on his way to hooking his boot heel across the felled case. There's a dragging scrape, lumpy and distorted over cracked concrete, and then another before it's close enough for him to touch numbly at the grip.
Eileen's open palm cracks against Magnes' face, smack muffled by the fabric of the mask he wears over it. If she wanted to hurt him — really hurt him — she'd have used the hand that still clutches the pistol in its grip. She reaches up, smears at the sticky stain matting her hair with the sleeve of her jacket and drops her eyes as she steps away, a sigh shuddering through her. "You shot him."
"He was going for his gun, if I didn't shoot him he would've shot me. I didn't come out here with the intent to shoot him, I didn't know he'd actually go for his gun when I already had one aimed at him!" Magnes holds his cheek, groaning, because that's the second time he's been smacked hard to do, both for shooting someone. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I swear, I'll never do this again, I'm just done, no more of this vigilante crap." He stares down at his feet, then up at her, he just can't stop apologizing. "I'm sorry Eileen! I'm sorry to Deckard too, he didn't deserve it, he didn't do anything wrong, I just reacted, he was going for a gun. What the hell am I doing!" His fist slams past her face and into the wall, shaking it considerably as he pushes a small circle of bricks in around his fist.
Flick. Flick. Flint thumbs up one latch, then the other, briefcase tipped open enough for him to skim drowsily over the contents before it's clipped neatly shut again in his lap. The slap gives him some pause somewhere around latch #2, as if he expects he might be witnessing a glimpse into his own very near future, but down it flips all the same. "C'est pas grave," muttered half to the closed case, he sniffs down at the cold damp of his jacket and straightens up a few degrees against the wall, awake if not not particularly alert. "Don't worry about it."
Deckard says not to worry about it, and so Eileen does not press the subject. She wasn't the one being held at gunpoint. Wordlessly, she goes through the familiar motions of holstering her pistol, securing the leather strap that holds it in place and then, finally, adjusting her jacket. Only when she's done does she lift her eyes to Magnes again. "The next time you pull a gun on someone," she says, "make sure it's a person you want to bleed."
"That's it?" Magnes looks over at Deckard, surprised at how calm he is about the situation suddenly. He sighs, doesn't question it any further, and looks to Eileen. "Can we go somewhere and talk? I really need to talk…"
Brows canted up at an uneven angle that would probably not get him out of a breathalizer test if he happened to be pulled over right this very second, Deckard loops his good arm around the case and declines to look at either of them. "Probably good advice. About the guns. And pointing them at people."
"Not right now." Eileen glances down at the smudge on her jacket sleeve, then back out at the alley and the trail of blood Lola left in her stumbling wake. Already she's moving to follow it, distancing herself from Magnes and the grizzled man with the briefcase. "Another time."
"I'm sorry I hurt you." Magnes says with incredibly deep shame in his tone, far deeper than the shame he felt with Abby earlier. He hurt his friend this time. He suddenly flies into the air while Deckard is looking away, quickly vanishing into the sky as he contemplates some major life changes after tonight.