deckard_icon.gif felix_icon.gif

Scene Title Cracked
Synopsis Do you suffer from long term memory loss? I caaan't remember.
Date March 10, 2009

NYPD Headquarters

For a guy that woke up to find himself in a jail cell and has no idea how he got there, Deckard has been quiet. A few complete circuits of the cell reveal nothing of help in the way of explanations. His old clothes are gone. In fact, pretty much the only other non-furniture thing in there with him is the hunter orange jumpsuit he's wearing. The black type printed bold across the back is enough to indicate that he's still in New York, but nothing else. Currently he's standing near the back of the 6x8, two fingers pushed carefully up under the black of his eye patch to feel delicately around the edges of his empty socket. Still healing.

The Agent is….not a morning person. By any means. His head hurts, and his expression is decidedly dour as he's brought down into the cells. No more nice interrogation room for you. He's in his usual crisp gray suit, blue shirt, as he's escorted up to Deckard's cell. "Morning," he says, curtly. "Your last chance to cough up. HomeSec should be here today, unless you can give me enough to keep you in New York."

Deckard isn't much of a morning person either. Less so when there's an indeterminate blank at the forefront of his mind. He's quick to turn his head at the sound of Felix's voice, remaining eye a little wild in its shadowed hollow under his brow, hair going in all sorts of improbable directions, stubble collection marching steadily on from its usual bristle to borderline beard. "What the fuck did you do?"

"What do you mean, what the fuck did I do?" Felix parrots back at him. "What I haven't done is press charges." He looks Deckard over critically. "Bulls give you a rough night?" His tone is not precisely sympathetic.

It's about three steps from where Deckard was to the barred gate at the front of his box, and he makes it there in half as many seconds. If Felix were close enough and gifted with anything other than super speed, it might be a threatening move to make. As things are, there isn't much he can do while he's on the other side. "You know I'm innocent, you son of a bitch. Is this your idea of a fucking joke?" Because…he isn't laughing. If anything he's getting a little loud, teeth bared white against grizzled growth.

"I know you're innocent of the frame job that's being hung on you," Felix says, not flinching away from the bars. "I'm trying to acquit you, you stupid bastard, even if you won't cough up on the subject of Case. The triads have a bounty on him, 200 K, or so the rumors say. And I told you, I'm not pressing charges. Listen, if you'd rather talk to Harrison, I can get her. For god's sake, help me out and I can keep Homeland Security off you."

Restless energy turns over into an outburst with unhealthy speed. All it takes is a little crack. Deckard slams his hands up flat against the barring on either side of Felix's face, bandaging, bruising and all, like a rabid coyote snapping at the end of its chain. Pity the fool that has to go in and get him out, later.

Felix still doesn't flinch. He just sits there, glaring at Deckard through the bars, like Bergman's Death patiently waiting for the knight to pick up the first pawn. You know how this game ends. "What's the point, Deckard? Falling on your sword for whom - do you owe this Case jerk big, or something?"

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT." ALL CAPS ALL CAPS, complete with spittle and another slam that does more harm on his end than good. The bars aren't going anywhere. Manic energy circles Deckard away once, twice, then he's back at the front again, the muscles in his neck standing out in wiry cords from collarbone to jaw. "Jesus fucking Christ someone better get around to killing you soon."

And Fel gets that cat in front of a mousehole stillness. "What do you mean?" he says, very quietly. "You do remember slamming the door on me, right?" He taps the stitching on the side of his head. "Listen, calm down and cut the 2001 act. Do you know why you're in here?"

Deckard looks to the stitching, the creases around his eye edged in harsh while he studies it. Looks real. Eye contact is sought again only briefly, and he retreats to far end of his cell to stare from back there.

Softer than the patter of little rat feet in the cells. "You don't remember, do you? What's the last thing you do remember?" Fel's right up at the bars, heedless of any possible wolverine lunges at him.

No lunges, no sudden movements. No answer either. Deckard just keeps staring, right eye too blue against the shadows that share the rear of the cell with him. Aaaaaah.

Fel having nearly no hair doesn't help his gaunt looks, any. He turns away, cutting a profile against the battleship gray cinderblock across the way. "Morrison," Apparently the name of the cop in charge of the cellblock. "Did anything happen with Deckard after I left last night?" he calls, voice echoing the concrete hallway. "Yeah," she says, after a momentary rustle of paper. "Couple of HomeSec agents came by, had a little chat," Felix stiffens, fingers curling around the bars. "Oh, really?" he says, tone gone dangerously sweet, even as he looks back to Deckard. "Who were they, Deckard. Do you remember their names?"

Deckard's head turns slightly after the sound of Morrison's voice — the only real indication that he's still listening while his eye stays fixed starkly upon Felix. No answer. There's beginning to be a theme in that vein!

"You don't remember," It isn't a question. "Son of a -bitch-." Fels hand slams into the bars, too swiftly to be seen. And then he turns and stalks down the hall. "Morrison, if they interrogated him, there should be a transcript, camera tape. Get it for me, please. Get me their names, badge numbers, however they dicked their way in here,"

Deckard stays where he is until he's reasonably sure nobody else is on there way over to bother him, all-seeing eye turned out to follow Felix's departure without blinking until he's gone.

March 10th: Post-Script
March 10th: Spider Crown
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