Foggy Memories Of Past Lives


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Also Featuring:

felix_icon.gif myron_icon.gif rebecca_icon.gif wilson_icon.gif

Scene Title Foggy Memories of Past Lives
Synopsis A shadow from Felix's past cuts across the path of his future.
Date March 19, 2019

It’s been raining for nearly three weeks in Rochester.

Outside the tall windows in the mess hall, the open landing zone where the Tlanuwa is usually parked is vacant, allowing for a clear view of the open skyline of Rochester across the river, and the slate gray sky above and beyond. Rainwater dapples the window, and the sound of it falling on the industrial building’s roof is a pleasant white noise in an otherwise unoccupied and large space. It may have been raining for weeks, but it’s also been quiet for just as long. Sometimes, it feels like Felix Ivanov is the only person on earth.

A coiling tendril of steam rises up from the surface of his still hot morning tea, a small toasted bagel sitting beside it with the last of the cream cheese in the refrigerator scraped across it. A folded copy of the Democrat and Chronicle, the local Rochester newspaper sits unread, with a headline in black printed across the front page: Local Heroes, Wolfhound, Capture War Criminals.

Local heroes, lionized in the press.

My, how things change.

The Bunker

Rochester, NY

March 19th


Change has been heavy in the air at Wolfhound. After Operation Hercules, after the defeat and capture of the last surviving members of the Institute, it felt like Wolfhound’s mission was finally over. Everything here, the lingering in the aftermath, felt like something unsustainable, something without a driving focus. Devon Clendaniel was dead, Noa Gitelman retired in the wake of Devon’s death, Claire Bennet retired and headed out west to be with her father, the Major was headed to Israel to consult with a contractor, and Colette…

Felix hears the sound of the lobby door opening and closing several rooms away. Everything echoes in a facility like this with as few people in it as there are now. He can hear Colette’s voice, he’d recognize it from across the world if he had to. But the other, a man’s voice, is both familiar and not all at once, like one of the bolts in Felix’s memory knocked loose by the war, rattling around inside. The voices draw closer, until it’s clear they’re headed to the mess hall.

“…no, you’re absolutely right about her. I mean, how could that not be an asset, right?” Colette pushes her way in first, leading with her hip against the door and turned to talk over her shoulder at the taller, darker, broader man that silhouettes her as she enters. He walks like a cop, it’s the first thing Felix recognizes. That gait. Though he’s dressed down in civilian clothes he still dresses like a cop, too. Their conversation ends when the man Colette is with catches sight of Felix across the mess hall and smiles.

Dark eyes, over six feet tall, black, small scar under his right eye—

It's Felix's unerring instinct for annoying the fuck out of other law enforcement that somehow has him bringing the crappiest ever Bucar right to where Myron is. AKA, one of those black sedans that just screams 'government agency'….though since this is New York, and all the agents treat them terribly, it's a rather worn and battered black sedan. "I'm sorry. Hard to believe we're supposed to be an elite agency, huh?" he says to Rebecca, apologetically, as he pulls up as near to where the elder detective's parked. He's in his usual gray suit, glasses on, looking weak and peaked courtesy of Mr. White and Mr. Deckard, but eager enough as he pops out of the car.

When the text message hit Rebecca Nakano's phone, she was actually shocked. For one — she never gets text messages. Ever. She doesn't date, or even go out. Her family doesn't text her because they communicate fairly consistently by voice, and she really only has casual friends at the office. She read the text several times before she finally acted on it.

Approaching someone within the office who also received the text and was not going to be able to go due to other commitments but suggested she talk to Felix. He also received the message. After hemming and hawing for half an hour, she approached him. He was heading over and was kind enough to allow her to ride along. Honestly, Rebecca has no idea why her she was included. She did some of the forensics, but she wasn't there when Case was taken into custody. Even if that custody wasn't theirs.

She rode along in silence and perked up only when arriving to the scene. She blushes a little at Felix's comment. "No. It's fine, really. I appreciate the ride." She was not going to risk coming out here on public transportation which is her usual means of transportation. Felix wastes no time in getting out of the car, but Becca is a little more cautious. She does however, join him.

"You know Timms has no idea how those messages are getting to your phone." Oliver notes as he climbs out of the beat-up old Pontiac that myron drives, slamming the door shut, followed by an ominous clunk from somewhere else on the car. "Honestly he asked me if you were just sending text messages to yourself, but— "

Oliver Wilson.

The loose bolt in Felix’s memory rattles back into place.

Remember this guy, Wilson? Remember when he was a spit and polish asshole Fed with a medal around his neck? Remember when he didn’t look like he’d lost a fight with a tractor-trailer?

It’s still identifiably Ivanov - the sharp Slav cheekbones, the narrow blue eyes, the too-thinness that somehow suits him, ineradicable outward sign of his own version of the linkage. But there’s that awful scar on the side of his head and his expression. Almost blank, without the old keen mobility. Even recognition of Wilson and his fondness for Colette don’t move the needle much.

But he rises from his seat to greet them, tea and bagel neglected. No questions as to what brings them here - still wrapped up behind those layers of reserve. It’s like a house with only half its lights on.

“Hey old man,” is Colette’s warm greeting as she breaks away from Wilson and steps up to Felix, throwing her arms around his shoulders in gentle embrace. She leans back enough to give him a squared look, brows raised in that moment of check-in on his well-being, before she releases entirely and comes to stand beside Felix with one hand reassuringly between his shoulderblades. “I wanted to bring Captain Wilson up here, to… talk?”

Captain Wilson smiles awkwardly as his title is invoked, raising one hand to dismissively wave it off. “Please, it’s Oliver right now. At least until June.” Long-legged strides carry Wilson over to Felix and Colette, and the tall, broad-shouldered officer extends a large hand in greeting. “It’s nice t’see you’ve held together through the war, Ivanov. Demsky here said you might be interested in… getting back on a more familiar saddle. Harrison has nothing but good things t’say about you too.”

Wilson is nervous, though. That look in Felix’s eyes isn’t what he remembers. It isn’t what he expected based on how Elisabeth and Colette both speak of him. There’s a moment where his hand is extended that Wilson holds his breath, uncertain of whether or not this dog bites.

He smiles into her face, raises his brows. He knows very well what she’s doing….and rolls with it. Even the hand on his back, as if he were indeed an old dog that needed jollying along to not take an absent-minded nip out of the visitors.

Wilson gets a slightly more lopsided version of the old smile. “Glad to see you survived, and congrats on the promotion.” He wraps his own thin one around that big hand, shakes it firmly. “And as if you had to ask. I’m glad of my experience with Wolfhound, but….things are changing, and I was a cop first. If you think I could be of use, just let me know.”

Calm. He’s calm and subdued in a way the old kinetic agent nearly never was. Fel glances away. “Would either of you want something to drink, eat? We’ve got coffee, tea, juice - bagels, toast, other stuff in the fridge…”

“There’s not many of us left to promote,” Wilson admits with a crooked smile, “and, Ms. Demsky and I just got back from breakfast at Crivello’s, across the river. I had a meeting with Avi Epstein, discussing some contractual options for Wolfhound and the NYPD. It… went well. He’s a bit of a character, isn’t it?”

Colette flashes an awkward smile at that notion. “That’s a way to put it,” she says quietly, to which Wilson pretends he neither heard nor understood the rejoinder.

“But, you’re as straight and to the point as ever, Ivanov.” Wilson says as he smiles, and Colette slips away from Felix to pull out a chair at the table he’d been sitting at, bringing the whole conversation into a seated configuration rather than something as awkward as standing around. Wilson takes the cue, pulling up a chair and settling in. “Commissioner Donovan lit up like a Christmas Tree when I mentioned your name. I don’t think he’s ever met you, but your reputation hasn’t faded a bit. That’s not even counting your status as a war hero…” which Wilson seems uncertain of how hard to harp on.

Colette settles forward in her chair, folding her hands in front of herself and looking briefly out the tall windows to the rainy skyline viewed beyond, then looks back and forth between Felix and Oliver. “Kaylee’s decided to join too. The NYPD, I mean.” There’s a flash of a smile, and she looks back over to Wilson, who nods in agreement.

“Honestly, Felix, I’d be honored t’have you around. You’re a good guy, straight shooter, and whether you’re more comfortable behind a desk or in uniform, SCOUT would be better off with you.” Wilson says with a slow spread of his hands. “I wanted to personally make the offer, all things considered. I know you’ve been through a lot, and this is… asking just as much.”

The old knee-jerk sarcasm has muted, too, though Fel’s version of diplomacy seems to consist more of having learned when to keep his mouth shut. There’s a rueful twist to his lips at the mention of his old reputation, but even that’s not as sour as it might’ve been, once upon a time. He only sighs a little. “I fear both of those are inflated, but well, not all the NYPD records are gone.”

Fel settles back down, takes a mouthful of tea, which he drinks brewed at that insane Russian strength that makes it very nearly a controlled substance, bitter as regret. He cocks a pale eye over the rim at Wilson. “I should play coy, try and wrangle position or salary concessions out of you,” he goes on. “But you know you had me at hello. My preference is very definitely not desk stuff - I’ve got a few more years of kicking doors in me before I have to settle down like that.” Really? Even looking like he does? As his Wolfhound record can vouch for.

Then he leans back in his seat, still cradling the mug, gives Colette a grin, then look back to Wilson. “I think I did meet Donovan.” But memory isn’t playing ball, and he shrugs.

“He leaves an impression,” Wilson admits with a raise of his brows. “Look,” he says, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Nothing starts until June, so you’ve got time to think it over… not that I think you’re going to take too much time, but I still want you to make sure this is what you want. It’ll mean a lot less of this,” Wilson says with a motion around the Bunker, “and a lot more interpersonal work, especially if you’re on the streets.”

“What Captain Wilson is saying,” Colette interjects, “is that they’re trying to not be the old NYPD. Stop and frisk, profiling, all that bullshit…” and then a blind-eyed look back to Wilson. “Pardon the language.”

Wilson shakes his head and smiles faintly. “No, I mean, it is bullshit. Was. I’ve got an opportunity here, as an SLC-Expressive, as a black man, as a human being to set things right. The NYPD’s made enough mistakes for a hundred lifetimes, and as much as I like Commissioner Donovan, he’s just another old white man. He doesn’t see things the way I have, hasn’t experienced them. Yeah, he’s like the three of us now — special — but that’s a different kind of exclusion.” Breathing in deeply, Wilson realizes he’s preaching to the choir.

“Anyway, I want you because I know you’ll put me on my ass if I screw up. I know you’ll take Donovan to task if he gets complacent, and I know you’ve got a backbone to do what’s right.” Wilson finally admits, looking out the windows for a moment, then back to Felix. “Your job would be to bring excellence, to solve crimes non-expressive officers don’t have the tools to, and to represent the people of New York as a role model and a peace officer.”

Colette leans a little closer to Felix, side-eyes Wilson, then looks back to Felix with a wry smile. “They butter you up any more, old man, and you’re gonna slide right out the door.” Colette says, making a forward push with one arm to pantomime Felix slipping straight down the hall. Wilson bursts out into a short, loud laugh and shakes his head.

“Sorry, I’m a little nervous,” Wilson says sheepishly. “It’s been years since Ivanov and I have seen each other, and a lot’s changed. It’s a big deal, and I care about who’s with us behind the blue line at the end of the day.”

He listens to this explanation, poker-faced, regarding the pair of them with those bright blue eyes.Occasionally sipping tea, but mostly listening, still with that air of stillness alien to his fidgety past self.

“You’re offering me a chance that hasn’t been available since 1845,” Fel says, finally.
“To be in on the NYPD from the ground floor - to have a real opportunity to shape the force’s culture. Because you’re right, it can’t be what it used to be….but with things having basically been razed, we have a clean slate, relatively speaking.”

Then he smiles….and it’s that old, curving smile, with its hint of arrogance. “And you’re damn right I will. You’re gonna get really fuckin’ sick of my opinions, I can tell you now. Speaking of which…what’s your plan, or Donovan’s plan, for keeping the various kinds of Feds from trying to turn us into their sock puppets? Because I played that game with the Bureau and with FRONTLINE … and with every other dollar that’s siphoned into the city basically being foreign funds, there’s gonna be a lot of people trying to stick their fingers into this pie.”

While Wilson’s mulling his answer, he gives Colette one of those sidelong looks, weirdly reminiscent of an actual Borzoi. “Hey,” he says. “I’m a lot to take in, in the flesh. And I’ve got a lot to offer. Not only am I a war hero, I’m a queer immigrant. I check a lotta boxes. Give me some credit, young lady.”

Colette can’t help but crack a smile, seeing Felix come out of his battle-worn shell some. This loquacious nature, this easy charm, this is the man she’s known and trusted for most of her life. The smile she gives isn’t just an amused one, it’s a reassured one. He’s in there.

“It wasn’t just the NYPD that got a chance at a fresh start,” Wilson says, folding his hands on the table in front of himself. “That was my concern too. Because of FRONTLINE, because of the DoEA, because of DHS, every alphabet soup conspiracy that ruined this country.” He nods, a few times, continuing to deepen his agreement with Felix’s personal philosophy. “Things have shaken up from the top down. We’ve effectively split the NYPD into two arms, one of which is your bread and butter officers and detectives, but we’ve broken out what used to be Major Crimes to SCOUT, because the administration is of the mind that Expressive abilities can be of a massive asset to those kinds of investigations.”

Tilting his head to the side, Wilson looks over at Colette, then back to Felix. “Donovan’s put me in charge of SCOUT, and he’s still selecting Captains for the mundane side of the NYPD. All of that… filters up to Donovan himself. He answers directly to the DoJ, and interfaces with Secretary Zimmerman at SESA. Because we’ll be working with them as much as we will the other, older alphabets. But there’s massive oversight committees now, Secretary Chesterfield and the President have drawn hard lines in the sand about that. IA has some really long, sharp teeth, and they’re going to make sure we cross every t and dot every i.”

“So,” Wilson spreads his hands, “we have our independence, but we have to cooperate with the other departments. We investigate crimes and enforce laws pertaining to non-expressive citizens, but in certain cases SESA can get called in to take charge of something that specifically involves crimes against people like us. SESA’s the white glove treatment, and they report to the President and, at least right now, the UN observer council… you know, in case anyone gets the idea to try any crimes against humanity again.”

Colette makes a noise in the back of her throat at that. “Good fuckin’ luck to ‘em if they try,” she says bitterly. That draws a look from Wilson, who feels compelled to add an addendum.

“That means us too.” Wilson says firmly. “We’ve gotta be better.”

Battered and battle-worn, prone to those disturbing brown studies and distant silences….but nonetheless himself, despite it. Colette’s reaction gets a little flick of his brows - I saw that, young lady.

Nodding along to Wilson. “Just to be explicitly clear - you really do want me in SCOUT, under you and Harrison? Though I imagine we’ve got enough of those vanilla NYPD veterans left to create a working academy and have enough to do the real detective work.” If only he could be two people - mutant cop mitosis, one to do the day to day case-solving grind, the other to run around like Pecos Goddamn Bill the cowboy.

A beat, and he adds, in mock warning “Last chance to throw me in among the flatfeet, or else I’ll be your problem until someone finally gets lucky.” There’s still that conviction that he won’t live to retirement - there is no pasture big enough to contain this cranky old warhorse. They’ll have to take him behind the barn and shoot him. Russian fatalism, the pragmatism of a veteran cop, or a hint of the oracle; only the very wildest watercooler rumors reminisce about the time someone found him dead on a beach, but they’re out there, still. As if he’d cut a deal with whatever minor functionary in Hell’s own version of the bureaucracy to come back for a few more cases, a few more bodies.

Another sip of that tea, and Fel clicks tongue against teeth, musingly. “So, SESA’s gonna really be the mutant FBI, then, in terms of position on the chessboard?” He purses his lips. “Understandable.” That gaze flickers between them. “And we’re gonna have to be performers…..” Humor there - he’s been the Expressive poster child before, hasn’t he? Even if he repeatedly fucked it up. “Day to day, what do you see me doing?”

“Making sure people feel safe, Ivanov.” Wilson’s response is quick and clean. “Wolfhound’s going to be on the NYPD’s retainer as a SWAT stand-in because we don’t have the budget to train and run one of our own right now, and honestly… I got a pretty hard sell from your Major a few months back. She’s good people.” Colette nods affirmatively to Wilson’s words.

“But as far as you go?” Wilson looks Felix up and down, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want your reputation. You’re a fingernail under the label that covers up corruption. I didn’t forget that old bastard Myron called you the human hurricane. Maybe you’re just downgraded to a tropical storm these days,” he says with a smirk, “but we need people with a heart and soul like yours. We’re going to be replacing the military police, here. We need to be a better face, we need to be better with the people. We need to put a fucking stop to the crime across this city… because we won’t be precincted. Our borders are the Safe Zone’s borders, and we’re going to be the best line of defense.”

Colette leans over, gingerly punching Felix on the shoulder. “And when the going gets tough, we can call in our old friends as backup. Best of both worlds, and maybe we’ll get our asses shot off less.” She adds with a crooked smile.

Maybe,” Wilson says with a soft sigh. “Hopefully.”

“I am the terror that flaps in the night,” Fel quotes, under his breath, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. He looks down into the teacup, which is too murky to be divined from, both literally and figuratively, glances up again.

The news that there won’t be formal precincts to begin with earns Wilson raised brows. “Really?” he says, clearly pleased by this idea. “None of the old juris-my-diction crap, eh? Oh, good. We wasted so much energy on those squabbles back in the day. You’re singin’ my song, Wilson, you can be sure I’ll be out there on the dance floor for it.”

Another little grin for Colette. “I’m glad to hear the weapon of last resort’ll be people we work with and leadership I can trust, too. Last thing we want is some trigger-happy jackass undoing all the hearts and minds work we just spent months on.”

Back to Wilson, “When and where do you want me? I’m not so necessary to Wolfhound they won’t let me go real quick, especially if it’s to the new prospective partner. Also, there gonna be a formal liaison between Wolfhound and the Force?”

“Liaison? That’s up to Epstein and Gitelman, the way I understand it.” Wilson says with a slow rise of his shoulders. “But if you’re volunteering,” he says with a wry smile, “I’m sure we can work that out.” It’s only then that Wilson is checking his watch, eliciting a quick squaring of his shoulders and a slow movement up to stand. “I’ve got a meeting with the Mayor of Rochester in thirty minutes,” he says briskly, “we’re pulling some of their officers, so I’m just powdering asses today.”

As Wilson stands, Colette does too, pushing her chair out with her legs. “Thanks for stopping by, Captain Wilson,” she says with a resolute nod. Wilson just smiles back.

“It’s no problem, I wanted to do this in person anyway.” Wilson says back, turning his attention to Felix. “SCOUT officially starts on the street in June. Try and clean up your affairs here before then, give yourself a couple weeks to acclimate to our facilities in the Safe Zone, reacquaint with Harrison if you haven’t already. If you have any questions, I gave Demsky my cell number.”

As he pushes his chair in, Wilson leans over the table, a hand extended out across the gap to Felix.

“Welcome back to the beat, Ivanov.”

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