Participants:
| Scene Title | He Saw Something Odd |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | And no real idea what it was. |
| Date | Feb 27 |
Nite Owl
Graeme glances up and across the booth, leaning back slightly. His fingers push through his hair, idly. "I'd say I'm tired, but I'm not, not really," he muses, only sort of talking to Liz. He's sort of just talking to the air. "But I am." He shakes his head, trying to resolve the two.
"But then again." His tone of voice suggests that at this point, some amount of tired is to be expected, and then he's turning his phone over, on the table. Still hasn't been replaced, though it's been repaired, if the bi-coloured plastic parts are any indication. Graeme's second soda arrives at the table, giving him something to pay attention to other than fussing with his phone.
Elisabeth glances at her own plate, the remains of a club sandwich and fries that she devoured with alarming speed, while she spoons up a bit of the hot fudge sundae she asked for afterward. The refill on her soda arrives with his and she smiles at the waitress slightly. But her blue eyes are on Graeme. "Emotionally tired is still tired," she observes quietly. "Believe me, I know." She's both these days. "You haven't heard from her yet, have you?" Her tone is gentle but there's worry in her blue eyes. Graeme's been able to see it since she walked him out of Redbird. There's a strain to her with him now that wasn't there at first. Like she's bracing for bad news.
And being himself, Graeme has pushed most of the emotional exhaustion into long hours working at the edges of the Dome. And occasionally overnight. Trying to make it into physical exhaustion, which is only met with limited amounts of success. "She texted me," he responds. "Told me to leave her alone, that she needed space." He bites down on his lower lip, which is taking a lot of abuse, these days.
Yeah. That …. doesn't seem to lighten Elisabeth's concerns. Her eyes drop back to the ice cream and she shovels it in without speaking. She's burning a monstrous number of calories out there on recovery efforts and as all those who work the way she does know… food replaces sleep sometimes. As she swallows, she can't help the slight clenching of her jaw or the stress furrow between her brows. "Will she at least tell you before she tries to turn us over to those bastards?" she asks softly. Her tone is …. bitter. Her faith in some people — specifically those connected to Humanis First — is pretty much nil.
Graeme's hands raise upwards, a bit of a shrug. His brows furrow. For all that he's been trying to avoid thinking about the situation, he's thought about it a lot, really. "I'd hope so, but that's another thing I'm going to hedge my bets on," he says. "I don't know. I barely know her." Then he grabs for a paper napkin, pressing it to his lip, whoops softly under his breath, a bit of that sheepish grin on his face, though it doesn't do anything to lighten the mood.
Setting her spoon down and retrieving her soda, Elisabeth sips from is and considers quietly. Glancing around, she's been making sure they can't be heard anyway — it's a good exercise for her abilities, which are still not quite back to full strength after she blew them out in November. Almost, but this is sort of like physical therapy for them.
Setting her spoon down and retrieving her soda, Elisabeth sips from is and considers quietly. Glancing around, she's been making sure they can't be heard anyway — it's a good exercise for her abilities, which are still not quite back to full strength after she blew them out in November. Almost, but this is sort of like physical therapy for them.
"I need to say something to you. And although I need you to understand, it's… going to be okay if you don't." Liz toys with her straw uncomfortably. "If her loyalties lay with Humanis First and she opens her mouth … I need to know. She cannot be allowed to talk, Graeme. I'm sorry." Her tone is bleak but stone cold. "There are a lot of things in this world I can't protect my own from, but…. that's not one of them."
There's a long moment, before Graeme nods. Before he acknowledges it. "I wish I knew her loyalties, Liz." There's that edge behind his voice, anger, and tinged by other harder to describe emotions as well. The words are clipped, short, even as much as his accent draws them out. But the statement is honest. "And she won't answer my calls, won't …" He pauses. Now is not the time to lose it, he's done that more recently than he likes anyway, and at least now he has had what amounts to enough sleep for him to keep it under check.
His hands fall flat on the table, eventually, and he plays with his phone, flicking through the photos on it. "I don't want to understand, but I do." He glances down at his phone, a moment. "Jessa used to say I never managed to do things by halves. I was always in trouble, always getting into things …"
The photo that's left displayed on his phone is one of a van with NYPD markings, seemingly rent asunder, but for the moment, it's ignored. "I do understand, and until …" he pauses, continues. "We can't rule out that she might … go talk. I would like to think otherwise, but I don't know her." He doesn't sound pleased with the concept.
The blonde is quiet. "Richard would like to believe that she's… at the very least concerned enough about your safety to keep her mouth shut," Elisabeth says softly. "It wouldn't look good for a member of that group to have an Evo sibling. I knew… a woman. A girl, really." Because that's all Helena was. "Her father was … a high-ranking member and she didn't even know it. It was… awful." Her jaw clenches. And finally she looks up at him. "And I wouldn't wish on just about anyone the kind of hell they put me through. They are… to my mind, they're on the level of bin Laden in their expertise with torture. A lot of them are ex-military, so… I guess that makes sense. That they'd know how to do it right after being trained to try to withstand it." She shrugs a little.
"I'd like to believe it," Graeme says. It's all too obvious in his tone of voice that he isn't going to be able to believe it, though. Possibly not even if he hears it from the person they're speaking of. At least, not at first. The instinctive wince turns into a grimace. "Extremism is a damnably horrible thing." He pauses. "In all forms."
Only then does he look back down at his phone, changing the topic not quite abruptly, pushing his phone towards Liz so she can see the picture. "Friday night," he says, with a gesture to his phone.
Elisabeth reaches out and takes the phone to look at it closely. She frowns and looks up at him. "What is this?"
The picture is that of an NYPD transport van, seemingly torn in two. There's the edge of a cop car, and the picture was likely taken in the rain. He gestures to her to scroll to the next picture, which is of a man, with ginger dreadlocks, pale skin, also blurred by the rain.
"I was out, riding for a while to clear my head," he says. At the very edge of curfew is left out, unsaid. "I didn't want stick around longer than I had to." Both pictures are taken from a vantage point upward. "But instead of clearing my head, I got to ride a while and spend ten minutes perched on a building's service ladder."
She's flummoxed. "On a ladder? Why?" Elisabeth is still somewhat confused about what the images are conveying. "What's happening in the pictures exactly?" she asks as she studies them.
Graeme was expecting that. He's well aware that he tends to let himself get ahead of himself, and that not all people share his quite … pedantic hyperactivity. "I was riding down the street, don't remember which one. Police caravan came down the street, nothing new …" he pauses. "And then one of the cop cars lifted into the air and rolled." This is where he frowns.
"As to why the ladder?" He grins, gestures for her to go one more picture past, which is a black SUV. On the sidewalk. Having assumably plowed through and over things to get there. There's a license plate visible, too. "I didn't feel like getting hit by a car, and it was there, and it was sturdy enough."
Elisabeth's brows pull tightly down. "Who the fuck attacked the cops?" she demands. It might be about now that he might recall she was an NYPD cop for a lot of years.
Graeme doesn't actually know, not quite. "Silver Prius. Dude with the dreadlocks. I think. As I said, the van in the middle got kinda … torn apart. By nothing. By …" He rubs his forehead with both hands. "More cops were there by the time I was leaving, but. The black SUV? Pretty sure that whoever was driving it, was how whoever attacked the cops got away."
"Okay…. slow down," Elisabeth says sternly. "The black SUV was following the cops? Or the Prius?"
Graeme shakes his head. "No," he says. "They both seemed to get there independently." He frowns, sighs. "The SUV mighta been following the cops, but the Prius wasn't, I don't think." Another pause, and a shrug.
Elisabeth looks puzzled. "So…. this guy…" she taps the photo. "He got …. stopped? Or… " She's shaking her head. "I'm not following why — besides the fact that someone in the scenario was clearly Evo — this is something you took pictures of," she admits.
Once more, Graeme shrugs. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was stuck a bit, after lady with the car drove at me, anyway." He purses his lips, a little. "I'd nearly forgotten, until I saw the pictures." He shrugs, a final time. "I take pictures of a lot. It's a habit from field work, years ago."
"All right," Elisabeth says quietly. Her brow is still pulled together. "Send them to my phone, okay? If I have a chance, I'll take a look into it. As it stands, though,…. I can't do the cops' job and my own," she says.
Graeme picks up his nearly empty soda cup. "I would have stayed around and such, but then there was …" he pauses. "Curfew to consider. Technically I still live in New Mexico." Which brings him back to the first topic, and despite his resolve, Graeme's shoulders shake slightly, betraying that he is tired, and his eyes squint shut for a bit.
There's a grimace and Elisabeth nods slightly. "I guess eventually you're going to have to change that," she says on a sigh. "Honestly, given that you're Tier 0, I don't see how it would hurt you one way or the other. Of all the people in this town, most of the Tier 0s I know have it pretty easy. Their information isn't exactly available, even to cops."
"Yeah," Graeme says. "I just haven't gotten around to it, really. I will, though." He shrugs, a bit. "I hope Keira calls me…"
Elisabeth plays with her straw. "Me too," she admits softly. Because God help her, she doesn't want to put a bullet in an ex-lover of Richard's. She's already arrested one of them. That went poorly.
Graeme leans on the table, not quite bothering to hide that he is tired. His shoulders drop, andhis eyes scrunch shut again. "Maybe I should sleep," he muses. And the immediate expression on his face suggests that as not such a great idea. Then again, the man has a telepathic roommate.
There's a soft laugh. "You know… it's not really as overrated as you might think," Elisabeth replies. "Go…. if you don't sleep, at least rest. Okay?" She moves to finish her soda. "I need to get back to work. Hang in there, Graeme."
