Participants:
| Scene Title | Fugitive Health Care |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An old hat looking for an old cat gives a new hat some sage advice. |
| Date | September 18, 2010 |
Odessa Price Memorial Clinic — Gun Hill
The large clinic taking up the majority of the basement of Gun Hill is dim in the late afternoon. Partly due to the lack of windows and partly due to the lights only being half on while the patient in the furthest bed sleeps. Delia's been rather quiet all day, filling out charts of the various patients she's seem since opening. There are no names, only numbers. It was decided by the clinic's only employee that maintaining the anonymity of the patients in case of raid is one of the more important things that she could do.
As she transfers the paper records into an old laptop, she places one hand on her ceramic cup and lifts it to her lips. The cup went cold hours ago and the coffee inside has separated from its tan color to a marble of creamy and mocha colored liquid.
Giving a small grunt of disgust, she places the cup down again and types a few more notes. A cursory glance is given to Agent Webb, to make certain he's sleeping soundly and then it's back to work.
The sound of the door above opening with a creak and the thump of heavy feet upon the stairs provides plenty of warning that someone's coming down to the clinic. There are many people in the Ferry with the stealth abilities of a feline in the night. Eric Doyle is not one of them.
The bearded and heavy-set puppeteer comes into view before too long, dressed simply enough in a button-up shirt and suspenders, slacks belted securely above the waist. He's not the most fashionable man around either. He stops just at the bottom of the steps, one hand resting on the wall as he looks around the clinic for a moment - then manages an awkward little smile as he notices Delia, "Oh, uh. Hi."
The loud entrance gives the nurse more than enough time needed to stow what little information she's recorded before the large man comes into view. After simultaneously folding up the paper chart and pushing the screen of the laptop closed, Delia turns toward Doyle with raised eyebrows and a light smile of greeting. "Hi there, how can I help you?"
She slides to a stand off her tall stool and wipes her hands down the front of her gray scrubs, smoothing out the wrinkles formed from sitting too long. Then her attention is focused on the large man again, her eyes sweeping over him to pick out any glaring injuries or illnesses. "Are you here for a checkup?"
"What? Oh, uh, no, thanks," Doyle's lips twist into a lopsided and rue-touched smirk, one hand smoothing over his bald pate in a sheepish fashion, "I was just— I half expected to come down here and— and see Odessa." Of course, she's dead. Awkward as ever, the puppet master looks back around the clinic, "I'm, uh, Jason. I'm from over at the Lighthouse? I don't— remember if we've met?"
Delia's smile wanes to apologetic as the man mentions the founder of the clinic. She hasn't heard much about the doctor but no one has said anything bad. She stalks the few steps it takes to close the distance between them and raises her hand for an introductory greeting. "No, we haven't. I'm Delia Ryans, it's nice to meet you Jason. I haven't heard much about the doctor, she must have been a wonderful lady to have a practice like this. It's pretty remarkable, actually."
"It's Eric actually," Doyle admits with a sheepish grin as he steps over, reaching out to take the offered hand in a brief squeeze, "Eric Doyle. I just— you know, I try to remember the use the alias when I can. So I don't forget it when I'm out in the street, you know…?" Once he's pulled his hand back, he turns to look around the clinic, "Mm. Not really— well. I wouldn't use 'wonderful'."
"Oh.." The small breath as Eric makes his big reveal about the doctor is accompanied by a rather shocked expression, one that quickly turns to dismay. The image she'd built up in her mind about the former operator of the place is cut down a few inches, making the pedestal not quite as high. A close lipped grin has Delia looking falsely chipper in spite of it, "Well we all have our bad days… maybe you just caught her on those ones?" Upon the release of her hand, she places both of hers into the front pockets of her scrubs. "Were you wanting to take a look around? I can't give you the full tour, but I can pretty much guarantee that I have almost all the equipment needed to do almost anything."
"I only ever caught her on bad days. Hers or mine…" Eric trails off from the words for a few moments, his expression both wistful and sad before he shakes himself out of it — forcing a smile back to his lips, "…nah, it's alright, I helped her set it up. I uh, I was the operator upstairs for a couple of months before I had to bring the kids back over to the Lighthouse." He pauses, "Do you, uh. Do you know what happened to her cat?"
"Cat? No… I— I didn't know she had a cat. There wasn't one down here when my dad and I were painting and rewiring." Her statement of fact turns into a question as the young redhead's voice hitches a little at the end. Worry marrs her pleasant complexion and she actually ducks to the side to look around Doyle, as if the cat might still be hiding somewhere. "What kind of cat was it? What did it look like? I might be able to put a few tins of food outside? I— ooohhh…"
The small whine that ends the stammer of rapid questions is followed by the young woman sitting at the end of one of the cots. "Do you think maybe someone might have taken it and taken care of it? I'd hate to think that a poor kitty starved to death in this basement." The thought turns her a little green actually, quite visibly.
A bit of a chuckle shakes Doyle's shoulders at her reaction, one hand lifting up palm forward to try and calm her as he steps forward, "Easy, easy… cats're pretty self-sufficient, you know. Cats." His eyebrows raising up in the sort of eye-rolling gesture that some men would say 'Women' with. "I imagine she got out on her own, or someone claimed her, or something…"
The worry doesn't ease from the young woman's face as she purses her lips together in a slight sad look. "I hope so… I mean, I wouldn't keep it here, it's too dangerous for patients, but I wouldn't want it to have starved or anything." Blowing out a long unhappy sigh, Delia rakes one of her pale hands through the mess of curls on her head. Surprisingly enough, she comes up with a pen that she'd stuck in there earlier. A small 'huh..' introduces its presence before it's tucked away again, this time in a pocket.
"I was just…" Doyle's hand gestures in a complex motion that means absolutely nothing through the air, and he manages a faint smile, "…I'm sure she's fine. Anyway, I— I guess I should probably leave you alone, I didn't actually know this place was still operating after she was— " Gone is a word he doesn't seem to want to say. A pause, "Are you, uh, a doctor?"
"No, not ye— " Yet. Ever. Delia stops herself in the middle of whatever she was about to say and shakes her head. "No. Nurse… I used to work in the E.R. at St. Luke's before… Before all of this happened." Lifting her eyes to meet the large man's, the redhead pastes another unhappy smile on her face and shrugs her shoulders helplessly. "Sometimes you have to do what you can, right?"
Tilting her head to examine him a little better, the nurse digs her hands a little further into her pockets. "So, you're like Lynette then? You save people? Give them a home?"
There's no questioning as to what this might be. Most of the Ferry have stories like that, after all, lives interrupted by some event or another. Doyle has his own secrets; prying into others isn't something he usually do. A faint, unhappy smile meets hers, his chin dipping in a nod of understanding. "Yeah."
He pauses, shakes his head, pauses again— "Well. Kind of, I mean, technically the Lighthouse is mostly legal. We take on orphaned kids, Evolved kids, and take care of them. Maybe you could, y'know, come out some time to give the kids a check up?"
The young redhead blinks a couple of times as her eyes and smile both grow pretty wide. "Yeah! I can do that. Definitely! How many of them are there?" She jumps up off the cot and winds her way to the long counter area and begins pulling open cupboards. Evidently, the suggestion has her so excited that she's already starting to pack.
"Hmm… have you noticed any of them getting sick now? Do you know if they're all immunized? I should start charts and give them numbers, just in case…" She pauses and turns around, a slight frown on her face, "The Lighthouse, what area of the city is that in? I— I think I might have a warrant out for my arrest."
"Heh. You too?" Eric's lips twist into a wry half-smile, "It's on Staten Island — it's not in the Zone, so you don't need to worry about that, it's a litle bit've a trek though…" He pauses, "Um. I'd have to ask Brian — Gillian used to take care of that stuff, I'm sure we've got, you know, records and all. None've them are sick or anything, a couple of them had a cold a couple weeks about but that's it…"
"Yeah…" Delia breathes out in a sigh, "I sort of got arrested the night before we had to run for trying to dodge registration. I should have just not— it would have been easier, maybe. I just didn't want to get fired from the hospital." She flits her eyes to meet Doyle's again and gives him a rather wry smile. "My school and career were sort of everything to me. You know?"
Turning back toward her busy work, Delia pulls out a stack of empty charts and counts them up then lays them to the side. "Hmm… are there any other safehouses on Staten Island? Maybe I should go through all of them in a day to make sure everyone is healthy." Dipping into the pants pocket of her scrubs, she pulls out a set of keys to open another cupboard.
"There's a few," Doyle admits, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully, "There's the Garden, that's usually just kind've a… stop off point or temporary safehouse for people, I think. There's the Sweat Lodge, where Shaman's people are. And like I said, the Lighthouse…"
"Shaman? Wh— Like a real— Really? Or is that someone's name?" Delia seems a little confused at first as she turns slowly toward the puppetmaster and raises her eyebrows high on her forehead. Pulling her arms down from the cupboard she was reaching into, she closes it and grabs a piece of paper instead. "Hey… uhm… Before you go, I don't want to keep you if you're busy or anything but.." A twitch of a worried expression crosses the redhead's features before she blushes sheepishly.
"I don't suppose you would uhm.. Tell me the safest way to get there? I don't want to bother anyone with trying to find a way there. Everyone's always so busy, you know?"
"Oh, it's— it's just what they call him," Doyle says, exhaling a laugh as he realizes her confusion, "His name's McRae, he's just sort of the… spiritual leader over there, I guess, like a chaplain or something." The broad puppeteer steps over towards her as she digs out the paper, admitting, "I'll give you my number, I can get you on one of the scheduled trips over there when you need to get over - I can't go through the checkpoints either."
Doyle is treated to the sight of the most grateful expression that Delia has to offer. "Really? W-wow.. thanks! That would be so great," her slight breathy laugh of relief ends in small exclamation and a rather long sigh. "I didn't know they had stuff like that, I'm not really part of the organization or anything. I don't think. I'm just— just doing— the only thing I know how to do. It's the only way I can say thanks."
Holding the pen in hand, she looks up at him from her bent position over the paper.
A half-smile curves to Eric's lips, one hand coming up to scratch through the scruffy bits of his beard as though he wasn't yet used to it - even though it's been long enough that he should be. "That's what all of us do, kiddo," he says kindly, "That's all that all of us can do…"
The phone number's given over, then, recited mostly from memory, and he adds, "I'll ask Brian about their medical records, I'm sure we've got some boxes or something."