Participants:
| Scene Title | Destruction of A Coked Up Star |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | "I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at." ~Maya Angelou |
| Date | February 6, 2011 |
The Corinthian — Delia's Room
Crown molding, white ceilings and striped wallpaper in shades of eggshell and pale gold all define this small but fashionably decorated hotel room at the Corinthian. Three hundred square feet, including the attached bathroom with claw-foot tub and shower, is not a lot of space in which to move around, but a pair of French doors painted white lead out onto a small balcony with a wrought-iron rail for guests who desire fresh air or the opportunity to enjoy a cigarette.
An armchair is situated in one corner and a small desk in another with a queen-sized bed and ornate headboard positioned against the wall between. Lighting is provided by two gold lamps build into the wall on either side of the bed as well as one that hangs from the ceiling and imitates the wan, comforting glow of candlelight.
The first pat of knuckle on the heavy door almost went unheard. The second, third, and fourth a little stronger but still hesitant in delivery, as though whoever is on the other side of the door doesn't really want to be there. The person on the other side is slow to answer, but a call to wait was sent immediately. It just takes time.
What greets Brad when the door opens is someone he hasn't seen in a while. Not since before November 8th. Maybe.. just maybe… he saw her in dreams. There's a spark of joy behind blue eyes that practically lights up her entire face when they spy him for the first time. "Brad!! Oh my god!!" She's happy to see him. Ecstatic, one might say.
It's more than what's behind her eyes that's different. She's filled out more, looking healthier and a little more muscular since he last saw her. Still too thin but obviously working toward the right direction. Her long red curls are arranged and tied into a knot at the nap of her neck, a few left to escape to frame her face and give her a more mature appearance. She's not in sweat pants and a t-shirt… she's wearing jeans and a sweater. "Come in, please, I missed you… I was worried. I saw the news last night— I… I was scared you got hurt. Are you okay?"
There's a slight raise of Brad's brows as he takes in her appearance. Not that he can judge. Not today. His suit is disheveled— the same as he'd worn on TV a day before, his eyes are bloodshot and wearing, and his beard and hair are uncombed. All in all, Bradley Russo has seen better days. He lingers in the doorway, leaning against the side, a single hand used to prop him up in place. Aside from his appearance, little else seems amiss about him. Save for the small edging of a smile. Despite himself, his appearance, and his supposed 'slip' (which through frequency have turned into indulgences rather than actual slips), he is glad to see her unharmed, okay, and looking healthier.
"You.. you look good, Carrots," there's an upturn of the right side of his mouth as he shuffles in. and closes the door behind him. There's little about him that is well carried or well put together, but here he is just the same. If there's one thing about Brad Russo, it's good, bad, or ugly, he shows up consistently. Especially when least expected.
"I'm okay. I… this Dome thing is a mess." He shrugs, in a sad attempt at nonchalance. But Bradley Russo is far from nonchalant on the matter. His hands tuck into his pockets. "Kincaid— he got you out okay… I'm glad. I was…" he shrugs. He was worried, but he conveys more nonchalance. Care about one thing, you start to care about everything. It's a sad cycle.
The room is standard sized, larger than her room in Brad's apartment. The furniture is more lavish but the presentation is impersonal, like a dream home. Everything is perfect and not lived in, aside from the rumple of an unmade bed, something she hurries over to remedy before she's judged too harshly.
"Yeah, he got me out okay. I got passed around a couple of times." She turns her wheelchair and tugs at the blanket to cover up the white sheets and blankets. The bed is straightened but not exactly made, not properly. "I missed you," she says sheepishly without looking up at him. "I miss home… I guess I can't come back for a while, huh?"
There's no judgment on Brad's part. He has a cleaning lady for a distinct reason; he hates cleaning. Including making his own bed. His hand rubs the back of his neck as he twists at the waist to peek about.
"Good. I mean, that he got you out. He's… he's a good guy that one." The statement actually causes Brad to frown as he sits on the chair, allowing himself to slump down on it. His elbows rest on his knees while his fingers rub at his temples. "I think— " he frowns only to switch tracks "— I mean, I missed you too." There's a weak smile as he peeks up from his hands. "You're okay here? I know you have some friends looking after you." There's no mention of Ryans. Not yet. His father had given Brad instructions not to tell Delia, and in a way Russo agrees. In another? Some people just can't see the redhead's inner strength.
The notion of his apartment being home, however, brings an easier smile to his lips, still tinged with sadness, fully aware of the answer, "No, it's unlikely you'll be able to come back for some time. I don't know if things will ever settle now." His smile eases a little more, "But I'm hopeful. I.. " the worry writes over his face, "I can't be selfish." There's a distinct pause as he rubs his still bloodshot eyes, "But you staying there… with me… Carrots, I haven't been that happy in some time…"
What she does next is a deliberate action rather than simply finding a place to situate herself that isn't the bed. Delia gives a weak and rather uncertain smile to her brother as she motions to the one chair in the room. "Yeah… I know what you mean. I finally had a home again, I haven't had one of those in too long." As she speaks, she wheels herself toward the door and backs up against it. Though her posture seems a little tense, she watches him, taking a deep breath.
"I have people looking out for me, yeah…" The way she says it, her tone, it's a little uneasy. As though she's anticipating his displeasure at the news. "Dad made a deal with someone to take care of me and keep me safe." She lowers her head and chews on her lower lip for a while, contemplating her words carefully. Before she says anything further, she glances up at him to make sure that he's sitting.
"Yeah. I've been living alone for so long I'd forgotten what it was like." To have someone there. There's a kind of awkward silence as he notes her posture. He's not altogether unintuitive. With another slow breath he shrugs his shoulders. Brad quirks a single eyebrow. "A deal?" that sounds like a good move. "With who?"
"With Mister Logan," the words are quickly followed by a lifting of her hands, a wordless plea for him to stay seated. "I know— I know he tried to hit you. He was— It was… I don't know what he was thinking, he said it was about a girl." Nicole. There's a measure of pain in her eyes as she lowers them to the floor. "I didn't think he could do anything like that and I couldn't believe it. He's— he's always been so nice and he's my friend." So, so very nice~.
She braces her hands against the wheels of her chair, just in case he tries to forcibly move her from her place. "I don't think he'll ever try it again, he probably just didn't know that you're my brother. He does now. He's keeping me safe here… to get better. So I don't have to worry, just like when I was with you."
Brad freezes.
Silence.
Complete and total silence.
He's not even breathing. He's sitting. Saturating.
His jaw tightens. His shoulders tense. His hands ball into fists— heating fists to match his heating temper. And his eyes stare. At the floor. The unassuming, undefensive floor.
Years on television have taught him to curb his anger whenever possible. It's fortunate in a way. But it also results in bottling. Copious amounts of bottled rage. Unspoken. Uncommunicated. Rage.
Finally, his gaze turns upwards— grey-blue eyes seeking her brighter ones. He says nothing. He just stares.
"I'm sorry, I'm trying to get better as fast as I can… I'm just not— very good. I don't want to get the flu, Brad. I can't get vaccinated like you can, if I go back and live with the rest of them and catch it? I'll be dead, probably one of the first ones." Now might not be the best time to relate the other little confession. Then again, this is her older brother, he doesn't want to know that sort of thing anyway. That is better left unsaid. "I don't know why Dad went to Mister Logan, but they made a deal."
Delia's bright blue eyes finally meet Brad's and she purses her lips unhappily. "Please Brad, I know you're livid… he hurt you. I get it, I really do. But— He's not going to do anything to me, I don't think."
"Not going to do anything to you?" Brad hisses quietly. "I did nothing to him. NOTHING."
There's a distinct furrow of his brow. "He's fucking a coward— retreated when I could actually defend myself— attacked me when I was wholly unaware…" His jaw tightens further as he rises from his seat. "He didn't hurt me Delia," well he did, "he intended to permanently damage me. Friend or not, this man is not someone you can trust— " and Brad thought NIck was bad, "You can't stay here. You need to leave… we'll find somewhere else," Brad's eyes trail the room for what needs to be taken.
Clothes, her iPad, there's nothing much that Delia has left. Most of everything that Russo had bought her was packed away discreetly by her 'moving team'. "Who can I trust? Where else can I go?" There's Nick, but Brad doesn't like him either. Brian, but she doesn't know where/how he lives. "I don't have many choices for safe places, especially not ones where I don't have to pay cash that I don't have." They're both proud.
Slipping her hands off the wheels of her chair, she angles her head to the side to gaze down at the floor. The breath of air that escapes her seems to completely deflate her as one more bridge burns. "If I leave, I'll never get to see Cheza again." Not that she's had much chance to now but the man keeping her is the dog's owner. The thought of losing not one but two friends, man and dog, has her shaking her head. "Dad made a deal for me to stay until I get better, this is where he wants me."
"Your Dad— " not 'our' Dad, "— is a fool. This man is not to be trusted, no matter what deal has been reached. And your safety is more important than connection to Cheza," whatever that is. "Delia can't you see you can't be here? He will crush you! He will find any excuse to execute revenge. The man is a snake. Believe me— I know snakes. I know the way they are, how they slither, how they operate. He is a fucking snake. You are not staying here."
Spotting some of her things he begins to pack on her behalf. It seems that Brad is determined. Even as the heat and dryness continue to form within his hands. He takes a deep breath and pushes past it. He's angry, but not with Delia.
"Where am I going to go, Brad? I don't know anywhere safe. This is where Dad made arrangements for me and I don't know where he is right now…" There's a tremor in her voice but she moves past it dismissively, it's nothing new that she doesn't know where her father is. It's also nothing new that Delia is stubborn enough for what comes next. "… and I'm staying until he gets back. Mister Logan isn't going to crush me. I'm no one significant, I can't hurt him."
In theory, she could but she doesn't have the heart.
There's also a matter of being pawned off again, moving again, leaving again. Slowly, her hands move down to flip the brakes on her chair. "I'm glad you're here, Brad, I missed you so much. I hated that I couldn't say goodbye and that I was just— that I had to leave the first place that felt like home since mom died. I can't get better if I'm moving all the time."
"That man— he is vindictive, vengeful, and untrustworthy! You cannot stay here! Read my lips: you're going." Plain and simple. Brad returns to the packing. "Your father isn't coming back for awhile. Could be a long while— knock on wood it isn't— that's the only reason I even know you're here. He asked me to look out for you."
Russo's eyebrows arch high. "And this is me. Looking out for you," he points directly at her as he begins rummaging through drawers for Delia's personal items. He's not shy about such things. "He didn't have all of the information. This was not a good decision." Beat. "So yes. You are leaving."
"You don't even know where to stuff me next." Flipping the brakes back off, she wheels over to the double doors and opens them to the balcony. The chilly wind that rushes through the small room cools it in almost an instant, Brad's cannon hands won't be catching fire today… hopefully. With only the slight movement that it takes to lift herself to a stand, she balances against the rail and looks out over the adjacent park.
"Do you know what it's like to be shuffled around like a little pawn? With no control over what you can and can't do? Ever since I woke up everyone else has been making my decisions for me. I can do this, I can't do that, I can stay here, I'm not allowed to stay there…" She turns and gives her brother a pointed look, pressing her lips together. "I was going to register when I got better, so I could get a job and an apartment of my own. Hokuto talked me out of it last night. She said they're still looking for me. Mister Logan might be everything that you say he is, he might be worse… Maybe he cuts peoples tongue out for praying, I have no idea. I don't want to believe that he could do anything like that because that's not the Mister Logan that I know. What I do know is that he can keep me safe, here. Because that's what Dad said he was going to do."
"Your dad says a lot of things, Delia," Brad objects as he stuffs some more of her clothes into a duffle bag. "He didn't have all of the information; he doesn't know everything, and he's just a man. Fallible. I don't trust John Logan— in this place, you're unprotected. You're vulnerable. I want— no, I need to keep you safe! Don't you see that?! I let myself get fucking arrested for you to get out! And you come here insisting that this— THIS fucking place under the care of one John Logan is the safest place for you?! Can't you see?!"
The insistence and persistence on Delia's part actually peaks her brother's temper. There's a quick burst of blue green light aimed at nothing in particular that shatters the room's mirror into a million little piece. The brightness, the flare, it's like a flame— a double blue flame of a bunsen burner as the heat emits from his hand into a beam of light and force.
The light, the shatter of the mirror, the flame, the scream of the young woman on the balcony. Delia ducks down and cowers in a huddles in a small ball against herself, allowing the chair to roll into her field of sight between her and her brother. Thin fingers claw over her head, holding it low over her knees to keep it protected. Just in case. She's never been out of control in the capacity that she could hurt someone other than herself. She's not like her brother or sister, with an ability that could kill.
She doesn't say anything, she doesn't utter a sound. There's just the little mass tucked into the corner of the balcony, trembling and rocking back and forth. Delia is terrified.
Control is something Russo doesn't have. Brains and quick thinking, however, are. He drops to the carpet, hands pressed firmly against it, as his forehead rests against it. He breathes. Loudly. There's a serious attempt to clear his thoughts with the speed and pacing of the breath. Finally he lets his body rest on the floor, stuck there while his temper calms. It's all he needs, all he desires. There needs to be a way to avoid these outbursts. Some way.
The sound of the sparse traffic outside is the only thing echoing through the room. Not a word passes from the redhead to the man on the floor. Delia's still huddled into a little ball on the balcony, shivering, the occasional sniffle as she attempts to keep her emotions in check. Eventually, even that stills and all that's left is her shuddering breath along with Russo's own.
She can't see him, thanks to the chair in the way, it's likely he can spot a coppery spiral of hair drifting with the breeze. If they made too much noise, there's no sign. No one is yelling for them to be quiet.
The quiet causes Brad's concern to weigh heavier. "Delia— " he cranes his neck to peek at that window, the hair granting him some measure of reassurance. "— it's okay. They're— my hands— they're on the ground. I'm on the ground. I.. I won't hurt you." Though clearly he could. His eyes tighten shut as he takes a few more cleansing breaths, those hands pressed tighter to the floor while his anger changes tide.
"I would never hurt you." Although clearly he has little control over this newfound talent. Maybe it's not enough to ignore his ability.
Rapid shallow breaths are what answers the man on the floor as Delia lifts her head just enough to allow her blue eyes to peer over a horizon of denim covered knees. Trying hard to calm herself, the young woman ducks down again and squeezes her eyes shut, willing her breathing to slow down. To stop from hyperventilating and making the situation worse would be acceptable.
Small white clouds of hair tremble through her nose and mouth, collecting into wisps that drift up and disperse only moments later. A small gust pushes the chair forward until it bumps against the rail and rocks backward. This allows for Russo to see a much better picture of his sister. Though obviously a little stronger, she's still quite thin and the fingers that spider over her scalp are quite skeletal in appearance.
Master of happenstance and especially inconvenience, the statuesque little brute that resolves himself from the chily balcony floor in a violent churn of inky vapor and lighter breath is instantly and easily identifiable as Vincent Lazzaro. Unlikelihood aside.
Peacoat open over close-cut grey sweater and denim jeans, he's as hollow around the eyes as Delia remembers, if less meticulously groomed. Living in a castle on an island full of refugees and terrorists for a few months will do that to you.
It's roughly impossible to guess why the hell he's suddenly here, but there's no denying that he is. Here. Mouth set in a grim line, brows hooded. Eyes black with judgmental disapproval.
There is glass. Everywhere.
"Delia," Brad murmurs while his hands both form fists along the floor. "Delia. You're oh-kay. Everything is oh-kay." Although his point remains. He turns his head to the side, craning it to find her gaze. But there's no hope if he's staying where he is. Instead, his shoulders hitch together, the muscles cutting together while his jaw tightens again. The anger remains, but it's direction has changed considerably.
He tenses his muscles, bringing himself to a half push-up against the carpet. There's something indecisive about him. Where he was so resolved before, something distinctly different lingers. He clears his throat, the words catching within it, producing a gruff laboured sound around each syllable, "Look… " there's a pause a long pause filled with nothing more than the sound of his breath. "I'll leave." There it is. "You want to stay. You stay."
With his head down, Brad doesn't see the new figure on the balcony.
Vincent is not completely alone in his suddenness; though a little bit more expected in her appearance, Huruma's actual entrance is less than. Or maybe it is, all things considered. Finery or no finery, the door virtually explodes right off of its hinges, cracking the frame as it is forced open, banging hard against the other side. It is a loud and obtrusive noise, preceding an even more obtrusive Huruma stalking inside, jaw screwed tight and eyes burning. The last thing that she wanted to sense as she came down the elevator was two other presences, and the sounds that came before and during the incident itself.
Huruma's hand latches onto the door behind her and crams it shut again, a protest of splintery frame flaking onto the carpet. She has no problem in seeing who else is there, unlike Brad's viewpoint from the floor. A quick study gives her only so much conjecture about what is actually going on, but perhaps it is enough. Huruma's boots crunch on glass as she steps in.
"You stay down." For Brad, as she steps past, probably even over him. "Delia?" Vincent gets no address- just a pointed little glare.
The scent of smoke as Vincent reforms is what catches Delia's attention first. Afraid that her brother's firehands would do to the room what Brian's did to Dema's residence, she looks up in panic to see the man reassembling before her eyes. Her boney fingers slide from her crown of red curls, her chin lifting to look up at the stern man. "Mister Lazzaro.." she breathes, her voice hitching at the very end.
Only then does she risk a glance at her brother. Her eyebrows knit together at his words, taking them as a semblance of permanence. The inward explosion of the door causes her to scream and cower again, her hands coming up to cup each side of her head as she squeezes her eyes shut. They said Mister Logan was dangerous…
Pointed little glares are not very effective — the flat look Vincent deadpans across Delia's temporary digs is about as impressed as any mongoose squaring off with a cobra over rights to a couple of fluffy mice. He isn't surprised to see her.
"Yeah," he says to Delia. Monotone. Mister Lazzaro. No longer 'agent.' "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that neither of you slowed down enough to bribe security on your way in."
Huruma's instructions are not actually heeded. Brad peels himself from the floor with the heat having faded from his hands. "I'm fine," he mutters nearly bitter as he glances towards the duffle bag he'd insisted on packing for her and then down to the bits of mirror shattered along the floor.
Russo's gaze turns to the balcony as his chin drops to his chest. "No. We didn't bribe security." There's a pause as the roughness in his voice is fought against— his throat is cleared again, "It didn't seem like something that would be necessary."
"You would be surprised. You don'go anywhere." It isn't clear which man she is talking to, there. Huruma's expression wanders between irritated and that edge of concern that brinks manic; she moves for the balcony, deciding to forgo any more glaring at Vincent in favor of getting Delia back inside. Or at least attempting it- in this kind of work she always impresses a great dosage of calmness, fondness, things that should help her with- ah- rescues. Delia might even have the mind to feel it permeate a pinhole in her fright, a coolness like swallowing gulps of water in summer heat.
"Delia, I'm sorry." For either not being around for this, or maybe scaring her again- she isn't clear about that either. Maybe both? Huruma offers an arm and shoulder for her after crouching down. Delia could fuss, sure- but chances are that Huruma might just grab her up anyway. Point is, the balcony is no place.
After the initial peal of fright from the young woman, she shudders and lifts her head to look at the state of her room. Her lovely room. The room she was trusted with in order to stay better. The room that she can't even afford an hour in, let alone an entire night. "Oh god…" she whispers, her face blanching at all the glass and the broken door. "Mister Logan is going to kill me…"
Allowing herself to be pulled to a stand, she wrenches away in order to sit in her chair. "Don't— Just… Just don't touch me…" Rolling back into the room, her wheels crunch little pieces of glass on her way to Brad's side. She's careful enough not to get any shards in her own hand, using the metal wheelbar to maneuver herself rather than the rubber of the wheels.
She's agitated enough that it takes a few minutes for Huruma's influence to wash over her. Then, she turns to Vincent and gives him a wane smile and shakes her head. "No." the quiet admission regarding bribes is coupled with a long stare at the room, the half packed bag, her brother, the chocolate giant… Finally back to Vincent. "I was supposed to stay here to get better. Now I think I'll probably be kicked out."
With the situation (at least temporarily) stable enough that angling in deeper isn't strictly necessary, Vincent remains on the balcony to stand sentinel there. "I don't think he will," reassured offhand, he looks to the battered door, to Huruma, and very finally — back to Bradley Russo, who he appears to be the least amused with.
"Is the Department aware of your dangerously persistent lack of control?"
When Delia makes her way back towards him, Brad actually moves his hands to his pockets, convinced they're safer in there than not. An eyebrow is quirked at Huruma, and her instructions, but the deflated expression on Russo's face is telling enough. His emotions are wrought with remorse. "Carrots, I'm sorry," his gaze turns to the floor. "I can pay for this." And more if necessary. Although what John Logan of all people will deem as sufficient payment is anyone's guess.
There's a sternness with which Russo regards Vincent. "And I wouldn't call it persistent. This is the second time I've— " he glances back towards the mirror and shakes his head. "I.. I haven't tried to use it," and from the sound of his tone, he has little intention of doing so.
Huruma is resisting the urge to step over and smack Brad across the top of the head. Ultimately, her self-control wins out, and she is faced with averting her attention to examine the damage he(and she) made. Her consideration lasts for just long enough, and she puts her gaze back onto Russo. "I can probably convince th'hotel staff that there was an accident with th'mirror, an'pay for th'door." Maybe under Logan's nose, even. What Brad says next gets a loud snort of air.
"That is a mistake. You need to, jus'not this way." Huruma is displeased with his lack of willingness to control, not as much that lack of control in entirety. Her voice has a bit of bite in it, otherwise smooth as she talks at him. "There are people more than capable of helping you learn."
"And then, things like this would not happen." His anger flaring, his power flaring with it. "Barring that, negation pills. You are careless, and you cannot afford that." She doesn't want to turn this into lesson time, however. "Delia, do you have any cuts?"
It's a hangdog expression that meets Brad's when he gets up from the floor. "All I had to do was just lay low until I got better. Treating the hotel room that Mister Logan is kind enough to pay for…" A look is pointed at both Russo and Huruma before she makes her way to the duffel bag and picks it up. "… like you're some rock stars on a drunken coke binge… isn't exactly the way to help me lay low."
It's Delia's turn to be the responsible adult. She's going to take advantage of it. "Brad, just stay away from Mister Logan until all of this blows over. Huruma… please knock next time and stay away from him too. I'll try to explain it, or something, I don't know." Slowly, her clothing is pulled from the bag and folded on top of the mattress. After three or so shirts, she glances up at Vincent curiously, "Are you sure he won't kill me?"
"I see. And you're what. Tier two? Under close supervision until a full investigation has verified your innocence?" There isn't quite enough of a lilt there to make that a true question, but the punctuation is there all the same, somehow, in a touch of a lift at Lazzaro's brows.
He finally steps in, then, crude oil glare drifting ceilingwards in search of a smoke detector before he sets mildly about the process of lighting up. While everyone else is breaking rules (among other things). Might as well.
"Pretty sure."
There's a bitter smile that creeps over Brad's lips as he rubs his closely shut eyes, "You know what, Delia? Maybe I should just stay away. You didn't listen about Nick, you won't listen about Logan, and.." pause "evidently I'm a walking time bomb. You were fine before I came along— " he doesn't finish his thought, he can't bring himself to say it even if he regards it with some sacred truth deep within him.
Huruma is regarded with another quirk of Russo's brow. His lips thin. Whatever he's thinking, Huruma can sense an unusual determination behind it as he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. But Vincent gets an answer, "Tier one. They're… " he scoffs around the next word, it's all a big joke, "…convinced I'm innocent."
"I've not gone near him. Won't. I don'have a reason to." Huruma says, defensively, her arms crossing in front of her stomach. John Logan isn't the only questionable person Delia knows, though he is the only one that Huruma doesn't really like. She can still keep an eye on Logan from afar, so what she says is technically true. She'll take his gestures at face value for the time being. "I would rather burst in on accident than not at all, if someone is in here to hurt you." Hey! She isn't the one with fucking cannon hands. "I only feel things happen. I thought that you were in danger."
The last part is a little sheepish for Huruma's usual tones, and her shoulders hunch forward just a bit, arms still folded as she stands there and watches Russo. Her impressions of him go high and dip low constantly, as if she isn't quite able to judge him completely. Right now she is mostly just seeing him as a total butthead.
She's about the same age as Vincent's daughter, they're even friends. When he lights up, Delia lets loose a small sigh and almost stares at the little stick enviously. How grand it would be to be able to spark up and just pollute your stress and frustration away. A glance to her brother has her hard expression softening a touch and she contorts her features into a grimace. "Brad, just— stop. If you want me to leave, then fine, I'll leave. But I want to know it's fine with Dad first."
Her arms cross over her slight chest as though that point isn't negotiable. "Someone has to know where he is… as soon as I know he's fine with me leaving, I'll go."
"Are they?" Politey interested in a deliberately infuriating (and faintly muffled) kind of way, Vincent strikes a spark to the tip of his cigarette. He drags once, twice and eventually ~thrice~ while Huruma does her thing before he tips the smoke away and takes a slow breath of less toxic air. One conversation mingling scattered in the midst of another.
"Well I can understanding why, I mean. You strike me as a trustworthy kind of guy." Ha. "A real 'straight shooter.'" Hoo. Vincent grins to himself. Grimaces, really, a definite edge of dismay at his own joke grit between his teeth for him to stifle into his cigarette when he lifts it again. Thennn back to Delia, with a lingering, narrow-eyed look for mister Russo in the interim. "Can I ask why this is even an issue to begin with? Why are you living with a pimp?"
"Look. You're not a kid, Delia. You constantly try to draw my attention to that fact, but if you want to be treated like an adult don't hide behind Daddy all of the time. He couldn't even be bothered to be around while you were unconscious."
Brad's smile becomes increasingly bitter, "For the record? Saving the world isn't worth it if in the process you lose everything you care about. I risked everything to keep you safe. Everything. My livelihood, my reputation, my freedom— I sold my freedom of speech so you could be free— I'm a fucking sell-out because you deserve better! And you don't even believe it!"
A hand combs through his hair. "So don't don't try to tell me he cares. Don't tell me he knows better. Don't feed me the same line he did when you were in an apartment getting cared for by virtual strangers. I don't want to hear it."
Vincent's joke, however actually curbs the bitterness a moment. "Yeah…" his eyes then linger on the other man in the room, as if truly taking notice of him for the first time. Pointing with a thumb, his eyebrow raises, "Who is this guy?!"
Huruma's palm brushes back over her head, painfully aware that she hasn't told Delia about the dome. She is distracted from this by Russo, and though she could rip into him verbally- and maybe she should- she isn't going to. Her displeasure is clear, at least, littered on her expression. Rather than say a word to him about this particular topic that she has some strong opinions of, Brad is all but fully ignored. Instead, she is going to say what needs to be said.
"Your father is in th'dome. Humanis First took your friend Kincaid. I am no'sure if th'two are related, but he said that he was going t'get him back." Suddenly she wishes she was stuck in that dome too. She wouldn't have to deal with all these damn kids of his, first of all.
No one cares about you like I do. No one will ever love you the way that I do. Those are the words that sink into Delia's head during Brad's tirade. Her own father can't be bothered to be with her, make sacrifices for her, not like her brother's done. Part of her shrinks and withers inside, feeling how Norman must have felt (the guy from Psycho) during conversation with his mother. "I get it…" she finally says.
Her blue eyes drift to Vincent and one corner of her lips twitch up at his joke(?). "My dad made a deal with Mister Logan… to keep me safe and give me a place to stay until I get better." Glancing to her brother, she motions between him and the smoker. "Brad, this is Mister Lazzaro, Mister Lazzaro, this is my brother Brad." As part of the introduction, she focuses on Brad and wheels a few inches closer to him. "Mister Lazzaro is the guy that kept me from disappearing during the riots. I got bagged and he rescued me… and got shot… rescuing me."
While Delia covers his introduction, Vincent's back to sizing Russo up again. Bullet list of sacrifices all-considered, he fails to look impressed. "Nice to meet you, Brad. I didn't watch your show, but I was famous too, for a little while. After the Department chased me out of an office window."
Injected humor falls flat. Mainly because he's still sore about it; his tongue rolls leaden behind his teeth and he glances to Huruma. If anyone'd told him he'd be tag-teaming with a cannibal in scarcely a few months, he might still have a job.
"Does Logan know he's in the dome?"
Russo's voice levels after Delia speaks, "I would do more to keep you safe." And that's the truth. "And I can contend with being a sell-out." He already has in some respects.
Brad casts a skeptical glance to Vincent, punctuated with a quirked eyebrow. His lips thin and his head nods slightly in greeting. Russo can't make heads or tails of Vincent, nor does he put a lot of effort to try until he recognizes Delia's recent judge of character. That leaves him uneasy. But then, Brad's memory does him good, "Did you save Raymond Praeger awhile back— from a roof? Or something— ? And— the prisons?" His eyebrows furrow. Faces he doesn't always remember. News? That's permanently etched into his memory.
"I don't think many people know he's in the dome," is said quietly as he slides towards the duffle bag again.
"Logan doesn't know. Outside of this room, Eileen and Raith know. I was trying to keep it as low-key as possible, because of Kincaid." Who apparently, nobody is worried too much about. Whether that is because of Caid's dealing with things or Ben's ability to save people, is up in the air. Huruma rubs at her jaw with one palm, the other perching on her hip as she regards Vincent with slightly less of a pointedness about it.
"I would like t'keep it low key, too." As for Russo and his need to keep his sister safe, Huruma has pretty much pried herself away from caring about that- she's going to be ghosting behind Delia no matter where she goes, for the moment.
"Yeah… I get it." Delia repeats after Russo absolves her of the crime of risking his reputation and freedom. The only person she actually graces with an occasional look at Vincent, mainly because she's still mulling over his question. Pimp?. She doesn't know the man very well, but he doesn't seem to be the type to cater to gangsta language, which leads her to believe that he might actually mean it literally.
"He probably does. When people keep things a secret, it usually means the whole world knows except … you know… the people who should." It's a snarky comment, the narrow eyed glance at her brother and Huruma both is enough to illustrate that. "Sorry, I didn't mean that." Yes she did.
"Former head of the Department's Office of Intelligence and Analysis." Whether or not that means anything to Russo now is unclear, but from the way Vincent looks him over still again, he suspects it will before long. "Frankly I don't give a damn what glass Ryans is under. So long as Logan feels like his end of whatever deal they made will be carried out, she'll be kept alive. On a serious note, someone should probably find out what that is. What are they asking you to do?"
Sellout, sellout, sellout, Mr. Russo's been saying, so Lazzaro swivels subjects abruptly back to his original interest there, left arm a support across his middle for the cigarette-wielding right.
Delia receives a narrowing of Brad's eyes, "I was going to tell you where he was if our conversation hadn't devolved into what it did." There's no conjecture in his voice, no lingering question that he might not have said it, if he's not telling the truth, he's a very good actor. But then he's a political commentator— juggling ideas and positions while massing egos is a occupational survival skill. "I was even going to tell you about Kincaid," his theatrical skills fail him with an uneasy lilt to his voice. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the smell of Vincent's cigarette, creating longing within him. Fortunately he's come prepared since his recent binge.
Reaching into a pocket he takes out a pack of cigarettes and his Green Lantern zippo. A cigarette is held between his lips as he uses the zippo to light up and then return the elements to his pockets, a place close enough for comfort should he require them again.
Brad's eyes narrow at Vincent before they turn alight, "Vincent Lazarro?" his eyebrows furrow while his tone changes, "You're a hero in my line of work! Mister Lazarro what you did with the Times— that was amazing! That kind of truth is hard to come by anywhere. Especially in a country where truth is so suppressed! For so long Moab was thought of as nothing more than conjecture, you blew that open. And risked everything in the process." He puffs on his cigarette, considering what he's given up. "I'm their puppet," is his final admission. "A glorified Muppet, that's all I am."
Huruma can mostly tell when someone is being like Delia is- lying through teeth takes a certain amount of mood, and Delia's readiness to apologize didn't help. The dark woman dips her head, thoughtfully, watching the carrot-haired girl with undue interest. There are some things that Huruma could stand to apologize for, but it probably wouldn't do much good for anyone even if she did. So for the moment, all she can offer Delia is that apologetic cant of her head, a slight downturn of her eyes, and a marginally creepy spare minute of …standing there.
Huruma can also appreciate Russo having a Green Lantern lighter. Thanks to Magnes, she knows more about that than she should- something about the force of will to power the rings. Which, incidentally, Russo lacks in some major places. According to her.
"A favor in the future," Delia pipes up, her voice a little softer. "That's the deal. He'll take care of me in exchange for a favor when he needs it. I'll make sure he gets it, no matter what happens with Dad in there."
Wheeling toward a trash can, she places it on her lap and makes her way toward the mess of glass. With great care, she begins picking up the larger shards, placing them in the can. Brad's own display of smoking isn't commented on, aside from a quick glance of envy. Perhaps it's a vice, but it seems like all the cool kids are smoking nowadays.
Oh. Ouch. An undefined favor for John Logan in the uncertain future. Vincent doesn't outright wince, but there is a shade of tension braced in under the increasingly salt-and-pepper bristle about his jaw. "Well," he says, between drags, "the good news is that 'Mister Logan,' has plenty of incentive to see to your ongoing well-being."
Tenuous smoke funneled slow through his sinuses, he shifts his weight and tilts his attention down after the nearest sliver of glass. No move is made to disrupt Delia in her cleaning. Whatever takes the edge off.
"I'm happy to have been an inspiration," imparted in an aside to Russo after a moment spent watching his sister, Vincent follows it up with a boot black look not quite intent enough to be caustic. It doesn't really need to be for the cynicism to permeate.
The phrase favour in the future has Brad's eyebrows arching and his eyes widening. That's not the kind of payment he'd want to owe someone like John Logan knowing what he does about the other man. "A favour in the future," he mumbles quietly with a tight shake of his head. "Delia you can't— " he stops. "You're not a kid. I get it, okay. But you don't have to take that on. We'll cross the bridge when it comes." Beat. "Together." He swallows.
Cynicism or not, Russo maintains his stand. "Look, it isn't often we get a break to prove that things are fishy. The average American? Yeah, they don't care. By seeing images, by being opened to what's going on in a very poignant, personal way, it tips the scales. Maybe not enough, but does what it can." He takes a long puff on his cigarette, before slowly blowing smoke into the air. "Regardless," Russo just shrugs.
He slides next to Delia and drops to the floor to help pick up the pieces of the mirror he'd destroyed. By accident.
If it will give her something else to task to, Huruma is grateful for it; Delia's motions to start picking up jog her a bit, and it's just a few seconds later that she moves across the floor and crouches down to start picking up the tinier pieces. Her hands are bigger, but her motor skills finer. Nothing personal, just wanting to help.
"For what it is worth I hope he asks for a poor favor in return." Indebted to John Logan is unfortunate enough. "I pray that he does not press his luck with getting that …'favor'." Just sayin. Otherwise, the floor is elsewhere.
