Participants:
| Scene Title | Garden Stroll |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Mortimer has a favour to ask. |
| Date | April 29, 2009 |
Linderman Building — Courtyard
Late afternoon light filters through the budding leaves attached to the trees in the Linderman Building's verdant courtyard, bathing the path in dappled pools of gold and shadow. It is along this path that the man for who the steel fortress was named walks, his strides slow but purposeful, gait leisurely and relaxed. With summer approaching, Daniel has spent more and more time outdoors, bundled up in a heavy jacket and woolen scarf to protect his throat and the very bottom of his frost-haired chin from the lingering chill that remains in the air.
"I'm very interested to hear about this proposal of yours, Mr. Jack," he says to his walking companion and conversational partner, "so please — elaborate on what you have in mind."
Walking along with his jacket zipped up and not a weapon to be seen, wanting to appear presentable, Mortimer goes over the proposal a few times in his head as they speak, wanting to get it just right. His eyes are that silvery color as he starts thinking, and he's never told Linderman what exactly it is he sees when he looks at his boss.
"Well, Mister Linderman…" he starts casually, trying to keep his tone respectful. "There's this large gang, I don't really know their names, and they're not connected to you, but they've got stuff I want, and they're holding someone who's important to a friend of mine."
Then, he holds his finger up, before presenting the primary issue. "The problem is, they're a lot more skilled than my guys, so I think a lot of us might get killed, and they might even outnumber us. So I need two things from you, and at least one if I can't get the other. More men, some of your guys, maybe even a gang you've got control of, and I need polyurethane so I can make a polyurethane foam bomb and blow these bastards to hell when I get deep into their base."
"Polyurethane," Linderman says. "Ah." His tone, as usual, while amicable is also difficult to read. Pale eyes survey a nearby saucer magnolia, its blossoms only just beginning the bloom and adorn the tree's otherwise barren branches in small flares of pinkish-white. His attention appears to be elsewhere than the Mortimer as he beseeches him, but he tilts his head and turns an ear toward the other man to indicate that he is listening. "What gang is this?" he inquires, only to follow the mildly-spoken question with an even softer, "I know you don't mind that I ask."
"I heard some guy call 'em the Men in Black, I don't really know their name, but I know where they are. Looks like they screwed a lot of people over, so I'm gonna go shoot a lot of 'em, get the girl back, and set off the polyurethane bomb at whatever seems like their most important area." Mortimer explains his 'plan' in detail, his eyes turning blue as he takes a deep breath, not used to the fresh air of flowers these days.
"Smell reminds me of high school." he says in an uncharacteristically reminiscent tone.
Linderman raises both his bushy white brows at Mortimer's explanation but offers no verbal critique. His body language, however, tells a very different story: the muscles in his back tighten beneath his clothes, the bow of his spine straightens and his square shoulders grow inexplicably tense. "I've never heard of any organization by that name," he admits with a hint of reproach, though there's nothing deliberately accusing about his tone. "Neither has Mr. Zarek, I suspect."
"So help me take 'em out, then you'll be able to see who they are." Mortimer casually suggests, eyes going silver as he looks over at Linderman, then jerks his head away as if he'd just seen something frightening. Not the first time it's happened. "At most, you lose a gang and some chemicals."
"I don't like losing anything if I can avoid it," Linderman points out. "You're a valuable asset, as are the men beneath you. That said, I won't attempt to dissuade you. Polyurethane— isn't difficult to obtain, but I'm afraid it isn't something I readily have on hand either. What I will do is give you the name and number of a man who can locate a stockpile at a fair price."
"Sounds good to me." Mortimer says with his eyes averted, rubbing his temples a few times as his eyes shift back to normal, before he can finally look at his boss again. "I'll never understand the fun in being as powerful as you, but you're a nice guy." He offers a hand and a casually friendly smile. "So who's the guy?"
The corners of Linderman's mouth curl into a faint smirk at the mention of the word fun. There is no sneering pull, no bitten off laugh, but it's clear that he doesn't entirely agree with Mortimer's assessment. "Flint Deckard," he says, "though I believe he's going by an alternate alias these days. You can find him on Staten Island, I'm sure, provided you ask around enough." He looks at the hand but does not take it.
"I'll ask around and have my guys keep their eyes open." Mortimer agrees, appearing pleased with the result. He'll finally have some polyurethane, it's like Christmas! "Before you give me the number, is there anything else you need me to do? One of my guys has an ice cream shop in Staten now, if you wanna use it for anything."
"That's quite all right," Linderman assures him. "I'd like to keep my business investments on the island minimal for the time being after that debacle with the Pancratium. What you can do for me is pop your head into a bar for me and let one of my representatives know if a woman named Abigail Beauchamp is working there. Old Lucy's, if you've ever heard of it?"
"Sounds familiar, one of my guys are totally nuts over Evolved news stuff." Mortimer quickly nods, then begins to unzip his jacket. "I heard she's supposed to have healed some guy or something. Want me to shoot myself in the arm before I go in, to find out?"
"That shouldn't be necessary, but if that's the approach you'd prefer to use…" Linderman trails off into silent speculation, not about to suggest that Mortimer cause himself any physical harm in order to complete the favour the crime boss has requested of him. He is, after all, a healer himself — the prospect likely turns his stomach. "Just see that it's done."
"Yes Sir." Mortimer says with a salute, then begin to pick up his pace. "I'll see you around, and let me know if you want a doomsday cannon or whatever you world take over guys like." he says with a casual wave of his hand, fully intent on leaving now.
This time, Linderman doesn't even dignify Mortimer with a response. Doomsday cannon indeed.