Gauge With Glamour


raith_icon.gif rue_icon.gif

Scene Title Gauge With Glamour
Synopsis Raith teaches Rue the finer points of breaking and entering, and gives her some career advice.
Date March 28, 2011

Hamilton Heights Apartments - Sanders/Petrelli Residence

Without the right motivation, people don't notice things. They don't notice faces, or people who don't normally walk up or down stairs. And, if foot traffic is low and its night, often times, they won't notice quick fingers working rakes in a door's lock. Perhaps most importantly of all, because it's night, they don't drop by to look at places they might want to live in.

Raith doesn't linger about when his rakes finally cause an apartment door to swing opened. He's already spent two minutes working at it. Not really that long of a time, but when committing a crime, it can seem like an hour. "Hello?" he asks not too loudly when he steps into the dark living room. When there's no answer, he quickly gestures to come inside. "Leave the main lights off," he says at more of a whisper than just moments earlier. With the main lights not going to be used, he pulls a flashlight out from his coat, a small hand torch with red cellophane taped over the glass, and flicks it on. "Close the door after you get inside, but close it gently. Generally, you don't want people to know that you're here."

There's a constant swivel of a young woman's head, looking down the hall in one direction, then another. Back, and forth. Two minutes does feel like an eternity of looking out, being horrifically obvious about it. When Raith finally gets into the apartment, Rue's ducking in after as quietly as she can manage, leaving the handle turned until she's got the door against the jamb so as to avoid the audible click back into place.

Rue tugs her own electric torch out of her red messenger bag and flicks it on, passing the beam around the room. Two mis-matched mirrors on facing corners in the kitchen in front of a small cafe table (and a note left there) reflect the light back at her, briefly giving the illusion that someone else is there with them. She fumbles the light briefly and moves it around the rest of the space. An old television, a sofa, another mirror behind that nestled between two windows. "I know that mirrors are meant to open a space up," she whispers, "but who would really care about a dump like this seeming bigger?" The bedroom door stands ajar. No sounds of movement from within, which sets the girl somewhat at ease.

"A claustrophobic?" But Raith's commentary is short-lived. "Make sure you keep the light low, by your waist, and don't raise it up unless you need to. You don't want it shining out the windows." It's good advice, if nothing else. "Next, you clear." And clearing, apparently, might involve violence, because the ex-spy is drawing his Glock before he starts moving to other rooms. "If it turns out to be less empty than you were thinking, just apologize and let yourself out, and then move to a different building before the police arrive." By the time the explanation is finish, he's checked enough of the space to be satisfied that, yes, it's empty.

"Generally, space like this that's furnished, you don't even need to bother clearing it. Just bug out right away, before someone wakes up or comes home. But since we're clear to use this one, it doesn't count."

Rue immediately lowers the light to point at the floor when Raith instructs her to keep it low. Only then does she slowly lift it again so she can see better on her way to that kitchen table. There's a piece of paper left there, and rather than reach for it, she leans down to get a better look. "Two Twenty-Six Eleven," she narrates, "Pea - Heard you ran off to Ess-Ay. If you see this, I'll be at the usual place. I love you, Enn." Then she smirks, slanting a gaze over her shoulder to Raith. "Postscript, there's tequila in the cupboard above the stove."

Ginger brows lift. "Jackpot, yes or yes?"

"That depends entirely on what kind of tequila," is Raith's reply while he holster's his weapon. Rather than moving towards the kitchen, however, he's moving back towards the exit. "You check, I'll lock the door." Which also makes sense. Don't want just anybody trying the handle and getting in when you're trying to hide.

That draws a wince. The lock. Of course. Yeah, that was a smart one, Rue. "Was… Was I supposed to do that? Or did we not want the deadbolt thrown so we could make a quick getaway?" She switches off her flashlight long enough to open up the cupboard and reach inside to grab the bottle of tequila - the only thing in the cupboard. Once she's got that lowered, she flicks the light back on to peer at the label. "Oh shit. Patron Silver."

"Building like this, the only quick way to get out is the fire escape anyway. Deadbolt or no deadbolt is something you have to judge for yourself, what you think is best given the circumstances." So, not such a gaffe after all. But Raith's attention moves from the door soon enough. "Silver? Find a couple glasses. You're hiding in a safe room like this, you don't want to drink, but like I said, this one's an exception." Serves them right for just leaving it there to be found, after all.

"Aye-aye, Captain Raith." Rue giggles decidedly girlishly as she rummages through the other cupboards for a couple of tumblers. Then, she pours the tequila. "Were you born this badass, or is this all learned skills?" She holds out one glass toward her partner in crime. "I mean, is there hope for me?"

Making his way into the kitchen, Raith rests one hand on the counter and leans on it, taking some weight off his feet. "I thought being a soldier wasn't cool," he remarks, "Because to get where I am now, you need to join the Army, become a Ranger, go to war, get selected for Delta Force, go to war two more times, retire, get talked into joining the CIA, spy for a few years, then become a professional terrorist. That's a looong list of things to get done, and not one of them is glamorous or all that pleasant. But there's hope. My degree is in Applied Linguistics, after all."

At first, Rue is somewhat cowed by the explanation of what it takes to be badass. But she recovers, one brow quirking. "Applied Linguistics? Not something like Applied Ass-Kicking?" She leans against the other side of the counter, a quiet little sigh escaping her lips.

"No, being a soldier isn't cool or glamorous. But…" Rue stares down at the liquid in her glass, swirling it a little even if she can barely see it in the dim light. "It sure as hell makes you useful, huh?"

"In one respect, yes. It makes you useful as a weapon." Raith scoops up his own glass, although he does not swirl his own drink. "But there are a lot of ways to be useful without being a weapon. WHy do you think there's a specialized market for couriers? Because they have useful skills, not because of some union they have. Even GPS can't beat a good courier."

"Yeah, but that feels pretty unglamorous." Rue's lips twist upward… ruefully is really the only word for it. "I don't know if you noticed, but… Part-time model. Glamour's kind of how I gauge things." Her nose wrinkles a little, teasing herself. "I know that delivering supplies is really useful, but…"

Blue eyes roll ceiling-ward and Rue shakes her head. "I don't know what my point is here. It's not like I want to become some sort of super-soldier or anything. I just want to feel like I'm offering 110% to the Ferry, you know?"

Maybe that's a sentiment Raith is familiar with. For a few moments, he's quiet, observing Rue, maybe gauging how she reacts. "I had two different jobs in the CIA," he finally says, "Only one of them involved jumping out of planes in the dead of night. The other one was harder to master, because art." Zah? "Applied Linguistics is a science. Jumping out of planes is a science. Making friends and influencing people is an art, and one you sometimes gain much more utility out of. Jumping out of a plane might help you get into some place you aren't supposed to be. With the right friends under the right influence, you can get in the same place without being shot at, and you might get dinner out of it too. You gauge with glamour? Compare slogging through the mud with sipping martinis. You understand what I'm driving at?"

The girl's chin lifts, slowly pitching upward as she listens to the man across from her until it finally bobs in a proper nod. "Yeah, I think I see what you're saying." Rue's eyes sparkle with interest, a smile spreading over her face. "Do you think I could do something like that?"

"You've got the face for it." Which is not really a compliment so much as it is an observation and statement of fact. "Right training in acting and psychology, and strategy, cold reading and fast-talking, and you could be pretty damn good at it, if you ask me. And if there's something we need in this town more than weapons, it's people with influence. That's how you really open doors."

"Annnd I've got a family name that might make it easier to open some of those for me, huh?" The glass is brought to her lips finally for that first taste of tequila. It burns predictably and Rue lets out a little whoo afterwards. "Where does a girl go to learn how to do these sorts of things in this day and age without the risk of being lined up against the wall during practise?"

"Oh," Raith begins, deliberately pausing to build suspense, "I might know a guy." Vague, and maybe a perfect bookend to the conversation. The ex-spy raises his glass in a toast. "To…" Another pause, although this one stretches out as Raith angles his gaze upward, trying to think of something to toast to.

"A guy," the girl echoes with a quiet laugh. "Excellent. I look forward to making that connection." She raises her glass then to the proposed toast, looking expectant for a moment as she waits for what they're toasting to. "Weapons both subtle and blunt?" Rue supplies with a wide grin.

"To weapons both subtle and blunt." It doesn't take Raith more than an instant of consideration to decide that this is an excellent thing to toast to. It's finalized by glasses clinking together. Maybe the power of the toast will be such that he'll even think of a way to gently inform everyone that there's no way they'll be able to hold New York.

There is, after all, something to be said of subtlety.

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