Deckard Gets Jack


deckard_icon.gif helena_icon.gif

Scene Title Deckard Gets Jack
Synopsis Helena comes with an offer. Deckard gets Jack. And possibly cash. Then will come the whores!
Date June 13, 2009

A Safehouse on Staten Island

Over twenty-four hours since he last saw Cardinal, Deckard has since scrubbed the last of the guy's blood black and brown from beneath his fingernails. He hasn't bothered shaving, but his dusty grey-brown hair is clean and so is his dress shirt, collar open, white sleeves rolled to his elbows and tail untucked over dark jeans. Post shower, he's been asleep almost since he got here and is just now beginning to move around in his temporary quarters. Single bed, wood-slatted floors, dresser and window. The decor is approximately as skeletal as he is while he paws his way drowsily through a black duffel bag in search of mouthwash.

A number of discreet calls to the Ferrymen have resulted in Helena finding out where she can get her lily white hands on Deckard. Not that Deckard'd particularly want her to, one would hope - she's altogether the wrong twenty-something blonde. Regardless, she needs him, and she's come prepared with a bottle of Jack Daniels - surely one of Deckard's favorite buddies - in hand, and an offer. But first she has to get to see him. As such, there's a knock on his door.

The absence of x-ray vision on Deckard's part renders null any effort he might normally make to squint through the door to see if the person on the other side is someone he actually wants to talk to. As things are, the wooden flat of the closed door reveals nothing of Helena and Jack parked on the opposite side and it's a good minute or two before he tosses the bag aside and paces over to crack it open.

Recognition…is not instantaneous. There's certainly something familiar in her face and in the blonde of her hair stored away from fleeting interactions they've had in the past. It's enough to knit his brow when he glances down to the bottle she's holding, theeen back up to her face. The hell do you want? Belligerence hollows into the sideways set of his jaw, long face hollow over the sunken pits at his collar bones. Six foot two white male regularly living in an orphanage full of food and he looks like a prisoner of war.

The first thing she does is hold out the bottle of Jack. Here, this is for you. As she holds it out between them she says simply, "This," indicating the bottle, "Is a gift. But I've come for a favor. Or not so much a favor, but a request that comes with a payment attatched if you're willing. Will you let me in?"

Click. A slide shuffles into place in his memory, black and white in a dark theater. A slow blink and a sigh later, standoffish irritation erodes into murkier resignation. Shoulder leaned into the frame, he reaches to take the offered bottle, tendon and bone ridgidly defined across the splay of his hand when it binds itself around the neck. Should've known this would be coming sooner or later.

He nudges the door the rest of the way open with a boot toe when he turns to fade back into the open space of the room behind him: silent invitation.

Helena lets her hand drop when the alcohol is liberated, and steps inside with a curious glance around the room. If she's looking for any outward indicators of Deckard's nature by way of the decor, she'll fail miserable - this is after all, a safehouse. "I won't waste your time." she says. "Abby's been directing people to another healer who isn't you for their needs, and that sad fact is, he's scary incompetent. There's a couple of people who need your current ability, and we're willing to pay you for it as well as make sure you've got what you need on hand for recovery. I've got all of Abby's backstock of Red Bull on hand."

"She the one that told you to ply me with alcohol, or does my reputation precede me?" Closer examination of the bottle's rich amber contents reveal no sign of anything suspicious drifting around inside while he continues on for the dresser. There, a half-empty glass of similarly colored booze waits to be topped off, so. He gets to it, poky scapulae and ridged spine defined against the flat back of his shirt. "I see you didn't think to bring any whores."

Helena smacks her forehead, "Oops!" she says faux blithely. "I guess the money I'm prepared to offer you could afford you a nice, expensive one for the night. Or possibly several cheap ones. I'm not really sure how that works. Do they have a union pay scale or something?"

"They tried to organize one once but the crackwhores kept blowing all of their dues on crack." Cap unscrewed, Deckard pours. One finger. Two. The bottle tips out, then back again after a hesitation. Two and a half. He seems very intent upon doing what he's doing so long as what he's doing doesn't actually involve looking at Helena. "How serious is it?"

"Two clients, so to speak. One has long term brain damage, memories that have been wiped from her mind that we believe will be restored once the damaged tissue is repaired. The second is more immediate - cuts, bruises, burns, possibly some internal damage, possibly a broken arm. We've got it splinted right now."

"'Clients.'" As opposed to just — random people who need to suck the life out've him some more to heal their booboos. Flint takes his time in screwing the cap back onto the bottle, still full enough to make a satisfying 'glug' sound when he sets it down again and the contents shift and loop around a little span of air that wasn't in there before. When he finally turns back, glass in hand, it's with an air of dragging, slack-shouldered reluctance closed off behind a wary expression and distant, chilly eye contact. "You think Red Bull is going to fix me?"

"For you, they'd be clients, wouldn't they?" Helena says. "Call them what you want. I know what worked for Abby. If you think something else would be better, I'm all ears." She's patient enough, willing to hear what he wants.

"I guess so. If you're paying me." Brows tipped up in an angle of cknowledgement that's just a little too steep not to be sarcastic, Deckard leans sidways into the dresser while he sips at his whiskey. Muscle fiber twitches visible along the lines of every movement, stretched gaunt and lean over long bones. "You doing anything about Teo, or is that none of my business?"

Helena lets out a faint sigh. "There's not much we can do about Teo for the moment. I don't know that he's necessarily as malevolent presently as people are making him out to be. I'm giving him a wide berth."

Deckard fails to look surprised at her answer. He also fails to reply, save in the form of a sideways glance away across the room and a longer swallow of jack. Silence ensues. Not necessarily awkward. Maybe a little pointed.

"Right. So. I can bring your clients, victims, patients, whatever you want to call them here to you, probably tomorrow, and I'll also have a payment for you." She starts to walk toward the door.

"Super." Enthusiasm fails him. Then again, there isn't much that Deckard does get enthusiastic about, and it's been a long — eight months.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License