Participants:
| Scene Title | Horror And Resignation |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | When Elisabeth comes knocking on Amanvir's door to recruit him for efforts pertaining to the end of the world, he has a bad initial reaction. |
| Date | July 17, 2021 |
Amanvir's Townhome
The green of the renovated Roosevelt Island is pleasant from isle's tip to tip, shimmering new buildings built in a modern style visible on the sunny drive across the bridge from Jackson Heights to the island. The neighborhood in particular that Amanvir Binepal lives in is part of a row of tightly-meshed townhomes, located left of center in the block it's located on. In the series of shrub-fronted homes, his bears no particular difference to the others surrounding it– only distinction visibly being the dark black curtains mostly pulled closed behind a more sheer, pleasant white in his front windows, and a brown, gnarled welcome mat of no particular distinction before the green of his front door.
When Elisabeth nears, isolating the noise of the house, she can hear only one set of feet, only one heartbeat inside those particular walls. Someone's home, at least.
She's not expecting this to be a hostile visit. In fact, Elisabeth has made certain that she is dressed in neither the black BDU look nor the business-casual detective look that are her norms for work. Instead, she took the time for civilian dress – nice slacks and a sleeveless button-up blouse. Privately, she thinks of it as her 'CEO's wife' look. It's dressy casual but not overdone in any one direction. 'Nondescript' but not really because she has the shadow of a bodyguard in her vicinity.
The knock at Amanvir's door is carefully administered so as not to be the booming cop-knock that is second nature now. The phone number in Richard's notes and a little digging in the Zone's databases yielded the address here, but Amanvir Binepal is not in any trouble and he's not, so far as she's aware, read in on any of what's coming. As the blond peacekeeper waits on the stoop of the townhouse, she works on trying to figure out yet again what the hell she's going to say to this man. There's no good way to say 'there's a human-extinction event about to happen and we'd like to offer you a place in the bunker we're building.'
The knock is one answered in short order by a man dressed down as well– though in far more casual wear. He spends a moment lingering behind the door, presumably staring through the eyehole, before he steels himself to open it. There's not much more he can do to make his sweat-upon jersey and athletic shorts look any more presentable, after all. She can hear him almost-imperceptibly sigh a beat before the door swings in.
Amanvir takes one look at Elisabeth and gives her a friendly smile smarting of customer service, in tones similar to how he greets "Hi," as he looks past her, finds the man lingering at the bottom of his stoop, and then looks back to her. He stands in the doorway at an angle blocking sight to the rest of the home and leads with, "I'm going to cut you off up front with… whatever you're here to sell, I'm probably not the demographic for it." There's the slightest contrition in that acknowledgement, though it's self-aware rather than self-deprecating. His brows lift as he segues quickly to, "Though, if you're a neighbor I've just not met yet, I take all of that back and hope you accept a profuse apology for the assumption."
He leans his arm not still holding the doorknob against the doorframe and clears his throat like to start over again to ask, not impolitely and still vaguely smiling, "So, how can I help you?" Brown eyes search Elisabeth intently for hints of a salespitch trying to worm its way in through the opening he left with his apology.
Aman absolutely strikes as the sort of man unafraid to close the door on someone should he deem the situation to call for it.
The huff of laughter that escapes Elisabeth is part surprise and part dismay. "Wow… a salesman? Clearly I should go back to the work duds when knocking on a stranger's door," the blonde chuckles. "Nope, definitely not. My name is Elisabeth Harrison." She has no idea if the name means jack to the man, though it always feels to her like she 'enjoys' a certain notoriety. She doesn't offer her hand with the introduction, the movement of gripping on wrist with the other hand and clasping them in front of her a seemingly natural one. "I'm going to say up front this is going to be a strange conversation, but I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes. There's a project being undertaken by RayTech that my husband would like to ask you to join."
There, that's normal enough-sounding, right? Maybe?
The very mention of Raytech undoes the modicum of polite professionalism Aman had been wearing, his heart skipping a beat. With the fading of his smile, his arm comes down from the lean against the door. He very well might need to close it after all. He looks distracted for a moment as he processes her name, RayTech, and husband all as items together rather than separately.
"I did warn you I likely wasn't your target demographic," he points out with an attempt at forced humor, but there's no apology in it this time. His eyes flit past her one more time to her bodyguard, quickly eliminating him as her partner. "Can promise that whatever Sera's told your husband to think I'd be some worthwhile hire, I'm doing just fine here."
He knows in his heart of hearts that if there were any woman encouraging a man who sent his wife on behalf of him to entreat him to do anything related to RayTech that there are several on the list above Sera, but he's trying hard not to think about either of them at the moment. And anyway…
"I'm– mm– who's your husband, ma'am?" Aman asks with a slight turn of his head, gears turning inside it. "I'm not familiar with a Mr. Harrison."
Elisabeth blinks and her eyebrows shoot upward. There is a lot to unpack in the 'if Sera sent you' and 'I'm doing just fine' statements. Pursing her lips, she studies the man. "That's because my husband uses his own name," she says calmly. "Richard Ray."
She waits just one beat and then adds quietly, "And he'd have come himself except he's on … let's call it a business trip. He is, however, apparently convinced enough that he needs you on this project to ask me to speak with you." Elisabeth tips her head. "May I come in?"
A startled, high-pitched laugh leaves Amanvir. "Absolutely not."
Not only does the door slam shut within a blink, the lock audibly churns into place immediately after. His hands thump on the other side of the door. With some frustration, he says through it loudly, "I'm perfectly fine without Richie Rich elbowing his way in with his latest attempt to play matchmaker when we’re–” His voice wavers and he clamps the words off before they can finish, steeling himself before he shouts more firmly through the door, “We’re all adults, not Barbie dolls, and some of us Barbie dolls were happier not knowing what fucked up shit lies just underneath the surface of this already fucked up world, thanks!”
There’s a shuddering breath that comes after that. Maybe it felt good to get off his chest. Behind the door, Aman closes his eyes. Behind him in the kitchen, a kettle’s come to boil, hissing about it the entire time.
“Even if it doesn’t have anything to do with that, which I’m not sure you could convince me of, I don’t want anything to do with whatever you’re offering,” he goes on through the door, his voice sounding unsteady. “I’m positive it’s still a conflict of interest.”
Elisabeth blinks. Several times. Turns around to look at Mike with a gobsmacked expression. The giant man's normally impervious expression holds a hint of befuddlement as well. And then a smirk when Amanvir yells through the door.
Liz turns back around and considers the door, pursing her lips. How much to tell the man, that's what she wrestles with. And why the fuck does Richard want this guy? Is he just one of Richard's, to his own mind, to protect? Irrelevant. His name is on the list, therefore—
"Mr. Binepal," she says quietly, making certain that her voice is perfectly clear on the other side of his door. She might as well be standing literally right next to the man. "First– I have no interest in your relationship with Ourania or what it was or what it is not now. Matchmaking is not my style." Might be Richard's. He does hate Harry down to the molecular level. He's not usually inserting himself into people's love lives, but… well, in this case he apparently has. Clearly Richard has already given Aman reason to consider him a pain in the ass. But anyway!
"Second," she continues quietly, "more importantly, to my mind… the fucked up shit that lies under the surface of this fucked up world has now come to life-threatening proportions. Believe me, I understand the desire to not know. But now that you do know, are you going to let it destroy everything?" Elisabeth pauses.
"If you don't wish to survive what's coming, that's your choice to make. But Richard had a list of people he wanted on this project in the hopes of keeping them alive and I presume it's also because your ability and your skills put you in a position to help save a lot of people. Call it enlightened self-interest that your name is on it." The man is, after all, a walking, talking backup to anyone's abilities – which could be extremely helpful in several ways that she can think of off the top of her head. "Whatever conflict of interest you think exists? I promise you that it doesn't fucking matter anymore. And if you need to keep away from Ourania as a condition of joining this project, I'll make it happen." Uncertain if anything she said will change his mind about talking to her now, she waits a long moment to see what he'll do.
Panic, apparently, assuming that Liz's voice coming through the door is due to her raising her voice as well but better than him. The deadbolt comes undone, and Aman reappears mostly as an arm which reaches for Elisabeth by the hand to pull her inside the door and shut it again behind them in almost the same amount of time as the first door-shutting event.
In the moment Aman's hand closes in on hers, there's the slightest moment of tinnitus– like the whine that happens when two microphones come too close together. It's gone before it can grow loud, something about the gap being closed canceling it out.
"Holy shit, please don't just go yelling things like that on the street, in front of my house," he asks of her once they're inside, looking down at her with some amount of nerves in his expression. The entire time, his heartbeat hasn't fluctuated the way one might expect on hearing the world might be coming to an end. Bringing her inside seems to have calmed him significantly, actually.
She's let go of quickly so he can turn and finally address the kettle in the background, which is giving out dying wheezes by this point having turned off on its own, but needs tending to anyway. He walks his way down the front hall into the kitchen, past an open living room with the lights on to make up for the lack of sunlight– at odds with the daylight coming in from the kitchen and relatively empty dining room. The coffee table in the living room plays host to a cluster of empty cans currently, paused music still on display on a patiently-waiting television.
"I wasn't just talking about Ourania," he says over his shoulder as he unplugs the electric kettle by the sink. "O got married last month, and I don't think even Richard's that stupid. For all I know he thinks pulling me in is what'll make things finally work out between me and Kaylee, and you know what – she's got a lot of other shit going on right now. She– both of them– nevermind."
Aman turns to look back at Elisabeth from this new distance. "You're not gonna be able to change my mind about the conflict of interest thing," he tells her tiredly. "As flattering as it is to be thought of."
She could have pulled out of his hold, although startled as she is by the brief sound in her ears it doesn't occur to her. It does occur to her to react when the door slams shut behind her, which is when she whips around and says – with no louder volume than speaking at a usual low one – "Mike, I'm fine. Don't come through the door, please."
Once she turns back to Amanvir, blue eyes are very slightly narrowed on him. She follows him through to his kitchen, uncertain of the reasons for his reaction. She certainly wasn't shouting in the streets, though it's possible he didn't quite realize that. She does glance briefly around the home before pausing at the doorway and finding herself amused that he's talking about Kaylee. Did she know that? Maybe? Who knows. She's got so much other crap in her head right now, that one is barely a blip on her radar.
"Mmmnn," Elisabeth offers simply at the correction of to whom he referred. "I'm well aware of what Kaylee has going on," she acknowledges. Tipping her head, she quirks her lips into a half-smile that doesn't quite reach her weary eyes and observes, "I'm sure you'll figure that mess out all on your own if you choose to… assuming both of the Kaylees come home." Which is not a given. He must know that already.
There's a moment where she studies him. How much to tell him? "Conflict of interest doesn't matter much if everyone is dead, Mr. Binepal." Elisabeth hesitates and chooses her words carefully. "There are some very specific people being chosen to work on this project – some for their abilities, some for their knowledge, and some for personal reasons. The workforce in question is large enough that I cannot see how just you being part of it is a conflict of interest. Please explain it to me."
With regards to the Kaylees, Aman grows unsettled at the implication possibly none of them come home. "Yeah, I've – been planning to have two roommates instead of one if everything goes well, but I'm not remotely prepared for the idea of having none. Like, cool, I'll get to stop living in a migraine-prevention den, but…"
But for everything else. But for his friend Isaac. But for his suffering and justice owed to him. But for the crater it'd leave behind in Aman's own life.
He shakes his head and comes back to the present, looking back to Elisabeth and then away to the kettle. He reaches for it, or at least starts to, like he intends to go on with his day, but his hand comes up to rub the side of his neck instead. With a hard to read expression, he stares off at nothing for a moment.
"I'm not at liberty to fully explain," Aman finally admits. That's an easily done thing. Less so is: "Though if I'm reading the situation right, you and I might've picked up similar side-jobs recently." The words said, he glances back at Elisabeth, watching her more carefully, his demeanor more a guarded thing now. "The conflict of interest wouldn't be exactly perpendicular if that's the exact case. Just…"
"They didn't fuck off either when I tried to tell them I didn't want any part of this. They just got here first." He finally does reach for the kettle and the dish drainer, turning over a teacup to pour – nothing but hot water into, for now. "And a little less diplomatically, for that matter," he breathes out sarcastically, and mostly to himself.
Nodding slowly, Elisabeth considers what he says and what he didn't say. "Mr. Binepal? The NYPD is my side job," she tells him in a quiet voice that has the force of conviction behind it. "It's really quite a shame that 'saving the world from assholes' doesn't have a business card. And I wouldn't mind if it had vacation and health benefits either." She shrugs slightly. "Such is my life. No one really asks if you want to get into this business. It just sort of falls in your lap, and you can choose to stand up and answer that call or you can choose to close your eyes and hope for the best." She studies him.
"I can afford to be diplomatic. You owe me nothing and I have no leverage on you – nor do I need any. Much like any horrific scenario, the outcome will affect you either way – there's no escaping that. It's global. And not everyone is going to be able to be given the offer you've been given. There's not enough resources for that." She shrugs slightly. "It's an open offer. You know where to find me if you change your mind. The offer remains on the table until such a time as I'm no longer in New York."
She turns to go back toward his front door, pausing with a hand on the doorframe of the kitchen as she looks back at him. "I sincerely hope you change your mind, sir. I'll show myself out." She taps lightly on the frame twice, then turns to let herself out his front door.
With his cup in hand, Aman's able to hold it as a stabilizing factor as a shiver runs through him at the realization not only is Elisabeth effective royalty for a company rapidly becoming more and more influential, she's also a cop. Oh good. Turning to lean against the counter, he mutters against the side of his teacup, "Definitely explains the lack of give-a-fuck around a federal NDA." while he hears the rest of what she has to say out.
When she studies him, it's plain to see how he wants to fight being in it– but there's also a certain resignation of someone already there.
He waits, and he waits, and he waits. No adequate words seem to come. The tap on the kitchen wall activates him again though with a wince, eyes closing. "Elisabeth," Aman voices possibly louder than is reasonable in his desire not to fumble this entire experience any more than he already has. He continues to hold the cup between both hands delicately though he lowers it down, trying to figure out what comes after that. What does come after that?
"Like I said, I'm also in the business now of getting people out of the horror show front row. We should– make sure we're not talking to the same people." His soul sounds like it's withering to say it. "I don't think the Department was expecting Raytech to be reaching outside of their employees' close relatives range. Definitely not this early."
"Also, I'm sorry I yelled at you," comes belatedly, but no less important in his estimation. "But only because you're far more diplomatic than your husband is. And also because this has just been– literally the worst time." The last batch of that sentence is practically sighed out, followed by another sip from the hot, plain water before he sets it aside.
Turning back at the sound of her name, Elisabeth leans a shoulder against that doorframe and clasps her hands over her forearms at her waist. Sympathy colors her expression even as understanding also dawns. "So you didn't want to be part of this but they didn't fuck off and give you the choice," she nods slightly. She seems to be thinking about how to phrase herself.
"So… several things, just between you and me, okay? First, you didn't yell at me, you reacted under a stress few people in the world could possibly understand. I'm one of those people, and I didn't take it personally." She grins slightly. "And yes, generally speaking when my husband needs diplomacy, he does not come himself. In this case he physically cannot, so… yaknow." Liz is not blind to Richard's flaws just as he can see hers clearly.
"Second, I don't have an NDA – not for this particular situation anyway, therefore I'm not breaking one by telling you certain things. I won't ask you to break yours, we'll just be… cautious about what you say. But it means that if I tell you who is on my list, I also don't want it getting back to the Department. Which leads us to third, I don't trust those motherfuckers farther than I can spit them. So what the Department expects is not my problem." She pauses and then offers a sort of 'meh' kind of shrug, adding, "Frankly, I could give two shits about the Department. As to what RayTech is doing? It's not their fucking business when it comes to who we're bringing with us – we have an arrangement for one level. We decide who goes into that level."
And doesn't that come with an expression of pure horror and resignation that Elisabeth struggles to hide. "And we'll put as many as we can. Richard has a list of people whose abilities he believes we're going to need. Given our past experiences and knowledges… I trust his reasoning. Therefore, here we are. I won't ask you to break your NDA. Are we at an impasse or … are we willing to trust one another not to talk to outside parties about who is on what list?"
Regarding being given a choice, Aman only wobbles his head at first, leaning back with both hands on the countertop behind him. "Well," he interjects mildly. "I will note that up until a certain point– they sounded about as diplomatic as you. But they had what you didn't– leverage– and I could do something noble, or I could go to prison." His face scrunches before he observes, "So there was a choice, sure, but like you said– everything's going to shit soon anyway."
When the NDA mention is brought up, though he was sure he mumbled it quietly enough, Aman's brow ticks upward– but only for a moment. Then he looks Elisabeth over while she speaks, less at her and not through her, but not quite in the way a person normally looks at another person. It's done in the space of a blink, after which a quiet hm leaves him, possibly over what he's seen– possibly over her declaration of a lack of trust.
Tongue in cheek, when Elisabeth makes her ask, he looks over to the hooks by the dining room (come workout equipment room) entryway, looking at his keys and where a lanyard are hung. He stares at the tiny laminate image of himself on that blue placard hanging from it, a tinier Office of External Investigations logo underneath the photo. It takes only a moment to decide to look back to Elisabeth and nod.
"I'm only asking so I can make sure I'm not approaching people you already are," he answers calmly. "A lot of smart people are out there making calls about the types of skills and abilities needed for this project, and I'd rather not waste my time on anyone who's already going to be involved– it's time I could spend finding someone else to add to the list. And beyond that…"
He hesitates, then shakes his head. The second thing can definitely wait until after the first.
"You fine if I write it down so I don't forget?" he asks, reaching into his pocket to produce his phone.
Elisabeth tips her head, thoughtful about the way he's looking at her. "Yeah…. Leverage is generally the way they get people to do what they want. Heaven forbid they just ask, tell you the costs and let you decide," she observes mildly.
"As it stands at the moment, I suspect they already have a good idea who we'd be looking for. All of the people we have loyalties to. Former Ferrymen, such as Colette Demsky and Abigail Caliban, who work with me at the PD anyway. Probably all of my team there will be offered space. Our employees and their families. We are, as always, seeking out agrokinetics and aquakinetics. I assume they're smart enough to be looking for those as well. Don't bother with the one at RayTech, she's covered. But there are others such as the two that helped me during the fires – Agent Dumortier and the other that I can't recall the name of just now. She was in holding, so I assume they've already put both on their lists and I crossed them off mine." She pauses and admits quietly, "My aquakinetic died a couple years ago, and I can't recommend any others unfortunately."
"I know precisely one, she's terrifying and absolutely ineligible," Aman commiserates almost derisively while he types.
Elisabeth does hesitate before admitting, "Wolfhound and their families are being offered space in our level; the vast majority of them are literally family to us or Ferry-family. So it'll open some spaces for additional people on the main levels if you were planning on approaching them." Of course, if DoE tells her not to bother it means additional room on their one level. "Mohinder Suresh is on the list – for his knowledge. If he's not already on DoE's, we'd like to negotiate that one."
Hearing Suresh's name makes Amanvir pause for a second, looking up before he goes back to noting down the rest of the words Wolfhound - all on his phone. "Mo–hinder's likely on our list," he admits delicately, awkwardly stepping around nearly calling him a different name. "Fairly certain he'd end up in the you don't get a choice about this camp. As for Wolfhound, no need to approach Tracy or Epstein, I've got them noted down already for Reasons. And for what it's worth, I'd appreciate you waiting to pull the trigger on those particular approaches…"
But why? His gaze unfocuses and his phone tips to the side, his head wobbling. "Let's… keep the number of dangerous and trauma-ridden folks read in as few as possible for the time being. I'm not saying don't hold space, but I'm saying be careful who you inflict this extremely cursed information on." Thoughtful, he smirches his tongue off the back of his teeth. "If you have to make sure you end up on their schedule, lie and say you have a long-term engagement you need support on vaguely in the fall somewhere in the Dead Zone. It's only two steps away from the truth."
Aman glances back up, thinking to himself about some of the other names listed. "Think you're free to approach Caliban and Demsky at will, no concern for conflict there. If there's an Agent of something who's a registered agrokinetic, chances are they're on my list, though, you're right there." He takes in a breath and then says something he truly seems to hate, not looking directly at Elisabeth. "You should think hard about being sentimental versus being practical. Everyone would bring their families and friends if they could. But will those family and friends all have something to ensure our longevity aside from being a warm body?"
"You've only got one level, like you said." That's as much as Aman can say before he rubs his face vigorously, trying to hide a grimace. He sniffs sharply afterward and makes a point of only looking down at his phone, doublechecking his notes. "… Is Luther Bellamy on your list, or do I need to make sure he ends up on mine?"
Elisabeth glances at him when he says to keep the information quiet, giving him a look that is almost pity. "Not my first rodeo with a HELE event, Amanvir," she says quietly. Those words fall between them with a weight that belies the gentleness in her tone and something in the way she says it speaks to impossible experience. "I know better than you can possibly imagine what it's going to take to survive down there." The hollow sadness in her voice conveys a deep understanding about the brutal scope of the horror they are facing… and the one they're perpetrating.
No matter how much she wishes everyone could be taken, even their own list of employees is limited to those who have knowledge or an ability that will help all survive.
Looking away toward his front door, she searches for words. "I'm sorry that… you had to learn this truth, to know any of it. I don't wish it on my worst enemies. Mass panic is not on my agenda; the only people being told ahead of time are the ones who need to know." The responsibility of what they're doing, choosing who lives and who dies, is not one she wants either. And yet, here they are.
"I'm just… I wish I hadn't had the wallpaper peeled back already," he confesses. "If the OEI had showed up on my doorstep and ripped the band-aid off with just this one single thing, it'd have been the mindfuck of a lifetime. But then– the shit happening to Kaylee and Isaac and those folks had already been another. And O and all the bullshit she refuses to let go of an entire other of its own. One I already walked away from because she wouldn't see how she was endangering herself, and now…"
"Well, there's other molehills out there, too. Too many to count. Too many to keep track of, once your eyes are open– once you hear whispers of them." Aman looks back at her with a slight shake of his head, seeing her properly. "Once you immerse yourself in the sonder of whatever's happened to people like you that causes you to look like that when faced with news like this– and no, I don't want to know what awful thing you've lived through. I can only handle the one mindfuck at a time, preferably."
His weight shifts, a beat taken before he admits, "… But to not feel helpless in this would be something. So, I guess if you do find something my particular skillset could help with that would make a dent in any of this, I'll pick up your call. I'd even give you my number so you can make it."
Aman looks back down at the open question on his phone. "In the meantime– Luther Bellamy under Raytech's umbrella, yes/no?"
"No," Elisabeth agrees softly. "You really don't want to know the things I know." She truly wishes for his sake he never learns some of things she knows – that the mindfucks he will deal with are limited to the ones he already knows.
She does offer him a small smile at his desire not to be helpless in this. "Yes, Luther Bellamy is already on my list. Do you have any other particular names you're concerned about?" Liz isn't amused so much as she's grateful, though, that he is willing to help where he can. "And yes, … if you would like to trade numbers, I would be happy to. Not just for if I come across the reasons you're on my list but also in case you need something from me." A wry twist of her lips accompanies that. "The OEI and I have a… complicated relationship. I tend to steer clear of them mostly. But our goals in this regard are definitely aligned – keeping as many people as possible alive. It doesn't really matter which of us approaches someone as long as those someones are approached. Once they get down there… everyone's agenda will be different anyway." There is a grim tightness to her jaw when she says it. Experience is a bitch.
Aman eases knowing that Luther's on that list for some reason, nodding to himself before he blackens the screen of his phone and turns it over between both hands thoughtfully, ending up holding onto it by its edges with purpose at the end of the rotation. He breathes out slowly, shoulders settling before he realizes he needs the device again after all. "Yeah," he relays distractedly. "Yeah." It takes a moment to flip it about so he can turn it on again, bring up the dial screen, and turn it over and out to Elisabeth to put her number in.
"For what it's worth, a distressing number of the people at this new gig are actually gems of human beings. Seems like every last one of us have, uh… well… an experience or two that qualified us uniquely to be approached," he relays with a grimace of a smile. "And pretty much all of them I've met turned out to be alright people. I get it, though– the entire concept of them– the fucking men in black– terrifying, right?" Aman glances up with sympathy. "Suits who know both too much and nothing at all."
One hand comes up to rub at the side of his neck again, wondering if he's saying too much. "No other names really jump to mind at the moment– I'm not a rolodex, after all. And off the clock, besides." Just like that, he pivots on a heel and heads into the dining room, snagging an abandoned clear bottle off the ground next to a folded-closed treadmill, one filled with a violently red mixture he shakes again to make sure hasn't settled. A glance is spared for the counter where the kettle's water cools and a styrofoam container of ramen sits unhydrated, and he makes his peace with coming back for food later. Or maybe not anytime soon, the way this has set his mind and nerves buzzing.
With that thought, he gives the workout mixture another shake for good measure.
"I don't know that I want to keep you, I'm sure you and your–" Aman glances back in the direction of the door, decides not to assume. "Anyway, I just– hope Kaylee's kids are doing okay. And that Des is– well–" He blinks once, hard. "Well." The end of that sentence wrote itself out for him, apparently. "And that some of this craziness makes sense soon. That loved ones come home, safe and in duplicate, and…"
"Well, that the world decides to take its fucking time before it ends," he supposes, and tips back his bottle to take a generous drink.
As she takes the phone so that she can input her number and make a hang-up call to it so that she also has his, Elisabeth listens. She smiles faintly at him and acknowledges softly, "Generally it's not the agents themselves that are the problem." Leadership is the place where shit falls apart, in her experience.
She chuckles as she hands him the device back, a flash of something crossing her face at his wish that people get home again. Her family is being torn apart – Kaylee with this android thing and Richard … well. "Kaylee's children are doing well," she assures him. "They're worried about her, but Joseph helps them handle their worries. Just for the record, though… even when you know the story behind some of the craziness? It still never makes fucking sense." Her smile is wry. "At least not that I've ever found. But so far we've managed to avert the end of the world – we'll see if that track record holds. I'll let you get back to your day. The number is my direct line – feel free to call it if there's anything you need, Amanvir."
She studies him and then nods slightly as she once more turns to go, this time with a somewhat lighter step. Looking back as she opens the front door she tells him sincerely, "No matter how you're getting there, I'm glad you are. Be careful with those men in black."
"You, too," Aman offers in return, a little heavily like he means it. After all, they're putting a lot of stock into keeping the precise topic they both just danced around directly referencing well out of people's minds.
Debating whether or not he should flag this at work is a problem at least until Monday, though. He flips his phone over in his hand several times after Elisabeth leaves, not moving immediately to lock the door behind her. He stares off, pensive, and eventually activates the music again in the living room from his phone to begin to help get him moving again.
"Fucking cop for a wife," he mutters when he finally steps into the main hall to lock the door and abandoned his already long-abandoned meal prep to head upstairs for a shower. "It honestly figures, man." Swinging himself around up the stairs by using the banister as a point to swivel around, he marvels,
"What a world we live in."