How To Find A White Russian In 40 Days



Scene Title How to find a white Russian in 40 days.
Synopsis Joanna searches for her foretold grave unsuccessfully.
Date September 29, 2010

Streets of Manhattan

The redbird business card is looked at, the dark haired woman that is Joanna, standing in the bottom floor of a parkade, taking it out of her wallet and seriously considering it.

This was her fourth parkade this week, she would tick it off the list she was slowly compiling, looking for the painted numbers that she had seen in her vision. Not the right shade. She was sure she'd know it, when she saw it, maybe it would ring better if there was some blood. Maybe it wouldn't.

She wanted to find out where the building was, that she found herself dying in, so she could make sure that she wasn't near there, if things didn't go according to plan. A forefinger tipped in red lacquer taps the side of the card, shaking her head as she turns, heading back to try and catch a taxi, start heading back to work, her lunch hour almost over and even then, it should have been spent at her desk preparing her case for tomorrow. Not out chasing ghosts and visiting parkades. Vincent would probably tell her she's bound to get attacked, mugged or raped in one before she finds the one from the vision.

Back out in the sunlight, arm lifted to hail a cab which squeals to a halt with the promise of a fare, she opens the door, sliding in and giving the destination. She wants to drive by it first, see what she can find out before she goes to them. Tasha may trust the half blind misfit from the island of terrorists but Joanna's Jury was till out. She'd bump a meeting, stay later at work to get something done.

When the cab lurches out into the street, honking at some poor pedestrian that's actually following the laws but just happened to get in the cabbies way, she's digging out her own cellphone, bringing up the picture of Sasha the Russian. That's all she had to go on. This picture, a name, and instructions to go to redbird if she wanted to see him. Meet the man who would hold her hand when she died. Meet the man who made sure that she still had a daughter, even if it would only be for a little bit more.

Sasha the Russian. She idly wondered if Immigration had anything on him and whether Vincent would go into a smoke-fueled-tizzy if she looked it up. A button pressed closes the whole affair, switching her device to email and starting to fire off work related stuff. She'd see redbird. Vincent could throw a fit. She'd see what these Redbird folks could do.

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