delphine_icon.gif matt_icon.gif

Scene Title Frequencies
Synopsis A man who knows more than he lets on comes to see the woman who can make things right.
Date July 18, 2009

A Staten Island Ferryplace

You can forget, sometimes, that it's a river these docks line rather than the wilder ocean. The scent that blows on a chilly breeze is very oceanic, or so Delphine imagines it to be. But there's the muted twinkle of Manhattan across the water to indicate there's an end to the expanse of water, and she closes the grimy window against the dock-scents that continue to filter in.

It's a warehouse, or used to be, previously owned by some company that capsized in the wake of the Bomb, or so is Delphine's guess. How it came under use of the Ferrymen she'll never know and won't bother asking - perhaps it was bought, donated, or simply taken. This is Staten Island, after all, with its strange territorial rules. For tonight, Delphine has taken an office for herself, cleared of desk and filing cabinets and instead home to a cot and other items and shapes that make this more like a temporary motel room than its original purpose. She chose it for the view.

Lamp light floods the room with a dim yellow shade, and she waits for her guest, sitting crossed legged on the end of the cot with a magazine in her lap. Her long, curling brown hair is tied back, her torso draped in an over-sized T-shirt, the kind she'd wear to sleep, and her legs clad in denim. Feet bare, with a daisy tattoo on the top of one, she wears no jewelry, no makeup, and only looks up at the sounds of foot steps, someone approaching up the stairs.

This being Staten Island, of course, Molly is safer in Jersey. That is, of course, until Matt is fully functional and able to watch out for her to the best of his ability again. It's getting that ability back that's the key. He's taken it upon himself to shave for the occasion, but that was this morning. There's a healthy growth of stubble still shadowing his cheeks, and he's in dire need of a haircut. All in good time, of course. At least his suit looks ironed.

"Delphine?" he asks tentatively as he reaches the top of the stairs and starts poking his head into the various offices, trying to find the one the woman is in. "Delphine Kuhr?"

"Here. Come in."

Her voice is mild, foreign in a mix of Northern Irish and the affects of living in New York giving it a certain lilt. When Matt approaches the correct door and pokes his head inside, Delphine is already closing the glossy pages of the magazine and setting it aside, one of those serious editorials about world news and issues. Hazel eyes give Matt a once over, a smile following a moment later as she unfolds her legs out from amongst each other, bare feet finding the floor.

"You'll be Matt, then?" she asks, getting to her feet and smoothing down the cotton of her shirt. "Top of the evening." She may or may not be being ironic with that turn of phrase, it's near impossible to tell save for the twitch of a dimple deepening in her cheek.

"I certainly hope it'll be," Matt murmurs as he steps into the room, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers for lack of anything better to do with them. He looks, in a word, worried, and glances about the room with narrowed, suspicious eyes - remembering eyes. "I want to thank you," he finally says after a moment of studious silence. "For doing this. I know Helena…well, she didn't have to do this. But I want to thank you."

Afterall, if Helena divulged exactly who it was Delphine was helping, there's a chance that Matt wouldn't be standing here tonight.

Another moment ticks by before Matt lifts a hand to cover his mouth as he clears his throat. "So…how does this work?"

"I'll consider myself thanked," Delphine says, with a wider, more genuine smile, if tired in the way that has little to do with the approaching late hour. "Though I haven't done anythin' for you yet, now have I?" She steps forward several paces, beckoning him closer with the wave of one hand. "It works by you standin' right here. It'll take a few moments, and then— then everythin' will simply turn back to normal. The way it should be, I suppose."

It is with some hesitation that Matt does as he's told, moving forward to stand nearer to Delphine. He takes his hands out of his pockets and gives them a small shake in an effort to release a bit of nervous tension, but he remains as stiff as a board. "You know," he mutters, looking first at his scuffed shoes and then the woman's bare feet. "When it happened…it hurt." There is an unspoken question there.

Delphine lifts a hand, stretching out long fingers, but hesitation as Matt speaks. There's an attempt made to catch his gaze, but with it angled so downward, the most she can do is tilt her head and listen, and a look of sympathy crosses her near olive features. "This won't," is her easy response, with a reassuring smile. "It never has before. You just keep still, now."

Her hand raises again, fingers spread, palm open and hovering somewhere over Matt's chest. It's not too much of an awkward angle to see the way her fingertips start to pulse with a vague, ashy white light, how these detach like the discarded sparkles of a fairy, rotate gently— before a singular, smoky white tendril reaches out, skimming along his chest, spreading and splitting and vagueing into an all encompassing, subtle glow.

It comes back like a faulty radio, at first, a dial being turned. Its his power, coming back to him, as genetics revert back to what they were before Arthur's hand had come in and ripped them apart like so many wires. And she wasn't lying - it doesn't hurt. "Y'welcome?" she states, as the glow begins to fade - also a question.

At least is quiet here in the warehouse. Matt squints, wrinkling his face so much that his forty years look like fifty as he mentally turns that rusty radio knob this way and that, testing each depth - each frequency. He doesn't stay long at any one in particular, however. Just long enough to check, not long enough to invade privacy too much.

Once he's satisfied that all is in order, he sighs, looking relaxed for the first time since he walked into the office. "Thank you," he whispers, letting his eyes close with the comfort of being whole again. He's silent for a moment, but when he speaks again, he opens his eyes to look at Delphine. "Will you be here again tomorrow? I need to bring my daughter to see you too." Helena surely mentioned them both.

As Matt allows his ability to sweep around, to stretch its legs, Delphine's thoughts are fleeting and insubstantial. A murmuring, echoing voice — not getting any easier and still works, still good included — that sounds about as tired as the way the woman looks, quite suddenly. That hand withdraws to press against her forehead, eyes squinching shut - not in the relief that has Matt doing the same, but in the pain she promised he wouldn't experience. Blowing out a sigh, she moves back towards her cot, where a small knit bag has been discarded on the rumpled covers.

This, she picks up, and nods along with his question. There's familiarity there, apparently Helena has been forthcoming with the details. "I'll be here for a few more days, aye," Delphine agrees, glancing at him, as she rifles around in the bag with searching, dexterous fingers. "You bring your little girl in and I'll make her right as rain."

"Are you alright?" Matt asks with sudden and almost parental concern. He saw that look, and he knows enough to guess that Delphine got the short end of the stick in their little exchange. He nods though, making a mental note to fix more things that just Molly, given such information. Matt moves toward the door, standing sideways at it to let Delphine leave before he does. But he remains silent, waiting for Delphine's answer.

The little white cylindrical container of what can only be pills is extracted, and Delphine nods once. "Aye. It happens. Ever since Pinehearst— " A glance in his direction, now, a rueful smile. "Ever since they tested the limits of what I could do— more'n I've ever done before— it's started to hurt. Sometimes I think it'll bleed right out of me." She takes a seat on the edge of the cot, and indication that she'll stay right here for a little while longer, elbows on her knees. "Feels good, though, to be rightin' his wrongs. You take care've yourself, now."

"Same to you," Matt says in a graver tone. He frowns as he studies the woman a moment longer, then leaves without another word - only the sound of his footsteps as a farewell.

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