Participants:
| Scene Title | Gameplan |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Members of Shedda Dinu gather to discuss how to use the current chaos to their advantage. But first, Huruma scares the crap out of Hagan |
| Date | February 3, 2009 |
Carmichael Manor - Basement
Given the fact that the curfew is in place, Hagan's been going a little stir-crazy lately. Sure, he can move around easily once it starts to get dark, but with so many bars closed at six, wandering the streets isn't much fun. His apartment is tiny and has a nice view of the riots.
It's not past curfew now. It's 3 PM, still an hour or so away from the Shedda meeting. Given most of his work projects are on hold, there wasn't any reason not to come early. Besides, Rupe stocks the good beer. He's currently working on one as he circles around the pool table and works at slowly clearing the balls.
It seems as if rule-breaking runs in the family, when it comes to the Sheddites. Huruma has faced worse reprimands from worse people than the New York Police Department and US Homeland Security. As she slips into the back door, shutting it behind her with a loud click, Huruma is first observing the space before continuing inside. Already the tall woman is removing her gloves- carefully and deliberately, finger by finger, the leather still soft and shiny on her fingers. Her eyes have since travelled to Hagan and the pool table, stirring quietly on him from the beginning. She says nothing as of yet, only sidling over to the arm of a nearby chair to inch out of her tight leather coat and deposit it onto the back of the seat.
The radio that blares out rock music does well to drown out the entrance of the tall woman. It gives Hagan a few more shots and Huruma the chance to watch him mouth curse words to himself as he stalks around the table. He's wearing a pair of well-kept blue jeans and a long sleeved black shirt that has the faintest pattern on it. His hair's as crazy as ever, but he's not smoking. This place seems too fancy to smoke in.
A shot is carefully lined up and made, but the balls don't go where he intends them to. "Fuck." Then he catches sight of Huruma out of the corner of his eye and visibly startles, like a cat. "Oh, uh. Hello."
"Hello." Huruma purrs a reply, idle by the chair up until he does seem to notice her presence. Her gloves and coat tucked away on the chair, she finds herself now smoothing the front of a moderately thin and elongated black sweater, the neckline dipping in a 'V' and the tips of her shoulders bare. It is only supposed to give an illusion of keeping her warm, frankly- and not all she wears is going to be leather and corsetry. Her dark pants do seem to cling to her legs around her thighs, being unpressed and smooth. The black boots on her feet, however, seem to be that same tall affair; the heels click on the floor where the rugs have parted, and Huruma carries herself closer to the pool table.
"It seems I an no'th'only one tha'comes early, hmmm…?"
"Em. Well. I'm going crazy staying at work or my bloody flat. So it seems pointless to rattle around home. At least there's room here. And the cops keep the riots out of this neighborhood. That's why people like Rupe pay the the big taxes." Hagan clears his throat. "So. Would you like a beer then?" He holds up his own, drains the rest of it, sets the empty in a bin and goes for the large, stainless steel fridge. The Irishman doesn't let his eyes linger too long on Huruma. He doesn't want to get smacked. A smack from her would probably take his head off.
Huruma seems to balk inaudibly at the mention of taxes and neighborhoods. Sad, but true. She leans up against the side of the pool table to watch Hagan, eyes following him as he goes back to the steel fridge for a second drink. Unlike him, Huruma is purposefully watching the Irishman for so long, and so intently.
"I will pass." She answers after a pause, the only sound otherwise that of her breath going into her lungs. "Wha'was your name, again?"
The Irishman pops the top on the beer once he removes it from the fridge. He looks back to her again, dares a bit of eye contact and then says, "Hagan." Then he moves as casually as he can manage over to the pantry to pull out a bag of chips that he tears open and dumps into a nearby bowl. "You can use the table if you like. I was just pissing around." He motions to it with a chip in his hand that then goes to his mouth. Crunch.
When Hagan deems the table free-game, Huruma turns her gaze to sweep over it. She leans, long and fluid, fingertips curling over the side of the ebony 8-Ball. The woman does not offer her name in return- he did not ask, so she shall assume he knows, whether or not that remains true.
Huruma sits straighter again, the billards ball in her fingers being inspected with a quick look. Her palm curls inward and it falls to her skin, then is swept out on her fingers as that hand curls up again in order to flick the ball into the air above. It gives a sharp, whirling counter-clockwise spin before falling back to Huruma's palm with a soft 'thunk'. If this were a cartoon, she might look as if she were about to lean out and take a bite from it.
She doesn't, of course. That would be silly. Instead, her eyes swivel back to Hagan, that gaze once again very still.
Hagan is clearly a bit unnserved by the whole display and by the gaze. He clears his throat and takes a swallow of beer. "Is…is there something on my face, or something?" The side of his mouth curls up and he touches his cheeks randomly. Then he shoves a few more chips in his mouth, all without taking his eyes off her.
"No, dear." Huruma glances away, but only for a second to put the ball back onto the felt-topped slate. "Well, if you don'count th'grease from those-" Or your face itself. That thought only seems to flit across her brain because of all this immersion. Woe be the day when she makes a 'Your Mom' joke.
"What are you doing here?" Huruma's voice is lower now, and she asks about why exactly he is here- but figuratively, as in with Shedda Dinu. Surely he is not here for the beer.
"Uh, what do you mean?" He knows what she means. But Hagan'd rather be sure that spout off something embarrassing. He clears his throat. "Do you mean…what can I do?" His eyebrows go up. He regards her a bit nervously. A glance is sent to the door. People can start arriving aaaannny time now.
Not quite soon enough, if it were up to Huruma. Her legs shift off of the side of the pool table, and the woman sidles slowly closer to Hagan, a tug at the corners of her lips. "Sure…" Huruma's face tilts barely an inch. "And, what you're… bringing to th'table'ere." Does she mean the metaphorical table, or the pool table? Because she has spared a second to flicker more than her peripheral vision at it.
"Uh, you want to know? You want to know what I can do, then?" Hagan rocks a half step back. He doesn't know what it is, exactly, but something about her scares the shit out of him. Not that women in general don't do that, but it's more than that. "Well, well I can…" There's a faint blip, then he…disappears. Or appears to, anyway. It's easy to bend light away in enclosed spaces. And since he's still, well, it seems like he just vanished before Huruma's eyes.
Where most people may be more startled, the only rise Hagan gets immediately out of Huruma is a slight wrinkling of her nose and a narrowing of one eye moreso than the other. A universally suspicious gesture.
He might be not in front of her eyes, but she is still able to feel him there. Uneasiness and wariness, on the surface. Huruma takes another lingering, long step towards where he was(is?), one arm lifting and reaching out towards where the woman assumes the front of his shirt to be.
Before she can grip him. Hagan reappears. He rocks back half a step. There's a flitting, nervous grin that disappears quickly. "So," cough. "That's…that's what I can do." Tada?
"Invisibility?" Huruma murmurs in question, hand not quite drawing back yet. It hovers there between them, poised as if she might decide to grab him anyway. "Sneaky boy."
"No, not invisibility. Not…really. I met a real invisible guy once. He got fuckin' pissed at me for some reason," Hagan clears his throat and sips the beer to help take the roughness out of his tone. He runs a hand back through his hair. "It's shadow manipulation. Darkness. I can bend the shadows round me so you can't see. Harder to work it outside during the day, but simple at night."
Huruma curls one edge of her lip, eyes narrowing down at him again. "I see…" Her hand suddenly decides to finish its flight, shifting into action and moving to snatch Hagan by the front edge of his shirt. "…A man afte'm'own heart." The woman's second set of words has lowered in tone, the rumbling undercurrent in her chest making it almost a growl. Due to her smug expression- probably not the worst kind of growl.
A man about to vomit up his own heart, more like it. Hagan moves back, but his back hits the wall. A picture rattles, but stays up by some miracle of gravity. He swallows and stares wide-eyed at her. "Well, um, I'm glad…you approve then." Please oh please someone save him. He doesn't know very much about the good kind of female growls.
Huruma flashes tips of a white smile at Hagan, her other hand moving lazily out to join the one already curled up in the fold of his clothes. The wall happens to be a mocking circumstance- he's backed into a corner, in the easiest terms. "Is tha'all you can do…? Can you surround something in shadow- just… wit'out bending it out o'sight too? Say- make th'night even darker?" What a time to be curious. Her voice has the touch of being fainter, more dream-like, slower. Poor Hagan.
"Uh, yes. Yes I can. I can black out a whole block. If it's dark enough. I could also just…blind you. Just stop the light from entering your eyes." Hagan's adam's apple rises and falls as he swallows. Heart, go back into chest, damnit. He may not have been smoking when she came in, but there's still the lingering scent of tobacco on his clothes. And sweat. He's a short guy, and she's…not a short woman. That makes the situation doubly intimidating.
The sound of footsteps interrupt, heralding the arrival of someone new. Only a few seconds of warning before the keypad is fidgeted with, a slight curse, fidgeted with some more, and then finally, the door swings open. Julian leans in first before taking a step, dressed in nothing that would reinvent the wheel for him - a scuffed leather jacket over an old sweater, a beaded necklace with a crucifix, jeans and boots, and lastly, woolen gloves. His eyes land on the other two occupants, an eyebrow raising in amusement before he seems more wary in the next instant, gaze moving from what he can see of Hagan to Huruma. "Startin' the party a bit early, aren't we?"
Was she watching him take that gulp? Most likely. Huruma's eyes cast over Hagan's face again, falling still when they catch his eyes looking back. "I may'ave some use f'you, yet." Her lips smile, bringing the tops of her cheeks into a lift. "…I almost… wonder if you were sent t'me." By who, exactly?
The door's sounds and the muffled noises of Julian entering garner Huruma looking briefly over her shoulder. A moment of mirth is visible in her eyes as she takes notes on his appearance and that aura of feeling around him. "I think we were almost finished." Almost is better than not, right?
With another person entering, Hagan seizes on the distraction. He bends his knees and tries to duck down and out of Huruma's cage of arms. "Julian! Julian." Oh thank god. "The cops didn't give you any shit, did they? They keep fucking harassing me." That's because he looks like a troublemaker, clearly.
"If they were I prob'ly wouldn't be here," Julian says with a half-smile, accent similar but still markedly apart from Hagan's. "Sorry t'hear you've been gettin' trouble. I've been keeping my head as down as possible." Still, they come from the same landmass, that much is clear, moving to lean a hip against the pool table and digging a hand into his pocket, gaze again settling onto Huruma. She gets a chin up in quasi-greeting. "Like Hagan said - I'm Julian. Aren't you one've those that works at Izzy's bar?" A little bit of cynicism there, plenty of amusement.
Huruma allows Hagan to slip away, palms resting on the wall where he had been. She turns herself around, resting half-bare shoulders on the brick behind her. Julian is regarded with a new tilt of the head, and Huruma's long arms cross over the sweater along her stomach, just high enough to shift underneath of that v-neck. "Mmm." A short, white smile breaks, and the woman lifts her own chin up to watch him. "Yes. I am." Huruma is the one that drags people out by their hair, ankles, seat-of-pants, et cetera.
Hagan isn't so much of a coward that he darts over and hides behind Julian, although he would like to do just that. Instead he moves to retrieve his beer and grabs another from the fridge to hand to his fellow Irishman. No 'would you like a beer'? It's just assumed. Also, it's a good excuse to get on Julian's side of the room. "I hug the shadows when I go most anywhere. Cept the fucking snow gives me away. You ever find out how not to leave footprints, lemme know." He's looking pretty antsy and keeps casting Huruma glances.
"Nice t'meet you, then," Julian says, hand raising in a quick, still wave. "Hell of a bar you ladies've got goin'." Speaking of which. Beer! That beats smoking, and Julian readily takes it with a nod of thanks, twisting off the cap and moving to sit on the edge of the pool table, regardless as to whether there was a game in play. Legs swinging, he shrugs a bit. "Cops're probably pissy that they can't get to the real trouble," he says. "Staten Island. So everyone caught over here is gettin' hounded. I've a mind to head that ways if I didn't need to stay in Manhattan."
"Climb." That's how not to leave prints! Duh. Huruma stays against the wall, taking silent amusement in the fact that Hagan has been trying to get as far away from her as he can- but stay within range regardless. "Likely." She answers to Julian, lidding her eyes and then lifting them back to him. "Frankly, I am more a'home over there than I am… here." Especially when one thinks about that very literally- Rupe lives in this shiny side of town.
Speaking of Rupe. The bossman moves down the stairs and rounds the corner. "Oh. Good. Some of you are here. Is…is anyone missing?" The lanky academic looks quite concerned as he moves further into the room.
Hagan turns at Rupe's entrance and blinks, then shrugs. "Not that I know of, no. I've been jostled by some arsey cops, but nothing serious. Nearly got a bottle thrown at me in this big fucking brawl that broke out at Biddy's. Otherwise. Just the regular New York chaos shite."
Julian hops off his perch on the pool table, as if perhaps Rupe's presence were reminding him to be more polite in general - if only out of respect for the other man than figuring he'd appreciate the show of decorum. He glances to Hagan at his answer, frowning a little deeper. Fucking riots. History, it repeats. "I don't think any've us've been snapped up, no," he says, looking towards Rupe. "Not the ones I know, in any case. Been keepin' our heads down."
Huruma is somewhat less forward in her politness- Rupe is offered a gaze that is significantly less observant and intent than the others. "I have no'heard of anyone falling victim." Huruma thirds the motion. "It is easier t'make others seem more dangerous than you, when it comes to…this. Keeping th'head down is only one way o'doing jus'that."
"Good, good. I was a little…concerned. I know there's too many similarities with what happened before. It's no doubt making people very…." Rupe rolls his hand. "…angry. I was afraid some tempers might flare." There's a glance to Hagan as he says this. "I'm glad you're all all right. What I wanted to discuss was…what we're going to do. We have an opportunity. People are on-edge. We can use this." He puts his hands together in a prayer pose and touchers the side of it to his mouth. The gesture lasts only a moment. His sharp eys rest on each of them for a moment. The eye contact with Huruma lasts slightly longer. "We need a way to provoke the authorities into overreacting to Evolved individuals. In a public way. Something that will make the news. Something that will…stand out through the chaos."
Hagan has found the bowl of chips and is eating them as quietly as he can while Rupe speaks. He looks vaguely offended at the pointed look at him regarding tempers, but he doesn't say anything.
"They've been doing that a bit themselves, bossman," Julian says, darkly. He takes a long swig of beer before explaining, leaning back against the pool table. "Riot broke out about a stone's throw away from the radio set up, over at the trailer park for the refugees. A big one, this time, and no one knows who to blame." That's said with a tone of him knowing exactly who to blame, at least. "Utter fucking carnage apparently. I was thinkin' on how to spin it for the hatecasts. Either way, now's a good a time as ever to target the cops, just like you say."
"Something worse than jus'another riot?" Huruma questions shortly after Rupe and Julian finish, brushing a palm down over the lower edge of her black sweater. "Something-" The woman parts her lips in a pause during the next breath, eyes on Rupe. "-that will jus'break some lil'bitty'earts?" She's quite good at that, and the purring voice only serves to make it more mocking and seemingly Right. "Humans- are sentimental creatures." Maybe it is time to play on it.
Rupe turns his head quite curiously to regard the tall woman. "Please, Huruma, if you have ideas?" He motions with his hand. He's intruiged. To Julian, he says, "Yes, I heard about that. But it's too chaotic when it happens naturally. We need to focus the chaos and mould it to our ends. This is a golden opportunity to earn a few martyrs and stage a few tragedies."
Hagan looks thoughtful and oddly silent as he drinks his beer. Rupe does this to him. The normally frantic guy gets positively mute around the academic. Maybe he's been implanted with a 'shut the fuck up' trigger.
"Aye," Julian agrees, quietly, but says nothing more for the time being. For now, he concentrates on his beer, gaze slanting off towards Huruma. He knows, for a moment, a spike of morbid curiousity, and so falls silent to listen to whatever her answer might be.
"Tha's jus'it. Tragedy." Huruma's smile lifts in a satisfied way, words at a drawl. "People crawl to it. And, incidentally-" She slips into a stand, away from the wall, and her back arches just enough to stretch, and both arms have linked in a similar motion behind her. "Th'younger said tragedy, the better. Add unarmed, possibly unevolved in th'first place- an'a trigger-happy man- there you have it. A tragic, angering mistake." As she comes to a close, her neck rolls in another stretch, though both eyes don't care to move away from Rupe all along.
If there's any horror felt in what Huruma is suggesting, Rupe keeps it hidden behind a mask of thoughtfulness. "Mistaken Evolved. Yes. But…not too young," He holds up a finger. "For the cop to fire, the target would have to be logical as a threat. A teenager. Or…" He bends his head and paces a little. "Gang killings always draw sympathy. It might have the added effect of dulling the mob mentality. Shaming people." He turns to Julian, one eye half open. "You could spin it, I'm sure. Say it's some…product of poverty and lazy people. I don't know. I'm sure you could find a way. Your argument could have just enough logic to polarize the hard-liners while at the same time disgusting the more moderates."
Hagan's lip curls. He dares to speak up. "So. How would you choose which poor kid's going to get a bullet between his eyes then? The lottery?"
As Huruma explains her idea and intentions, Julian's eyes narrow, his gaze fixed on her. It's not an easy thing to allign oneself with, and as Hagan makes his comment, Julian swallows a little dryly, barely heeding what Rupe has to say about how his show might present this. Two long gulps of beer are taken down, likely because, god help him— "They won't ask for it," he agrees, roughly, setting down the beer bottle as he looks at Hagan. "Like I didn' ask for what I could do, an' you didn' ask either. None've us did. And we'll get locked away in a blink for it." That's what he so fiercely believes, at least, and he continues to talk himself out of this one moment of moral conflict. "It's a sacrifice, innit. We're not a pack of heroes. Look what happens when we try to be." He nods to Rupe. "Don' worry, I'll have it covered. It's easier'n I thought it'd be."
Hagan reserves Huruma's immediate attention, for good or for ill. Her face snaps sidelong to peer at him while Julian talks, her own lip curling up before melting into a toothy white smile. "Why… th'same way tha'I choose the rest, Hagan." When she finally says his name, it sounds like it could have come from a snake, charming and all the same somewhat terrifying. Onto that, Huruma adds an extra twinge of fear to his likely wary brain.
"We do what we do so that more of us don't have to die in the long run. So that one day we can all be free," Rupe's voice is low, patient. "Yes, we are in the difficult position of choosing who must be sacrificed. But that's why you wanted to fight, isn't it? You wanted to do something. This is what we have to do. Make the hard choices. Do the things that turn our stomachs. But you know it is what needs to be done, or you would have left a long time ago." The academic draws in a long breath and looks between Julian, Hagan and Huruma. "We're facing the reality of our mission. Until now it's been talk, but it's time we started getting our hands dirty."
 February 3rd: As The Coast Unwinds |
 February 3rd: The Start |