Participants:
| Scene Title | I'm Feeling Lucky |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Devoid of rational or responsible options, Deckard tries Googling for benevolent technopaths in attempting to re-establish contact with an old gay friend. |
| Date | June 23, 2010 |
A Public Library
There are libraries around Montauk. There are libraries everywhere.
This Flint knows from his former life as a relatively normal convicted felon, though there isn't much of normalcy in the way he sinks himself into place behind an old 80's tan terminal. Hardly a day or two out of his last big meeting, he's already well on his way to looking homeless again. Save for the suit, that is. The suit's fine. Fine enough for the jacket alone to be worth several 40 ounce units of the good stuff.
But for now he's clean and sober and medicated enough to register the stink of musty old paper and the clutter of laminated covers on every side as he navigate his way quickly through user login and internet access. The sooner he gets the browser open, the sooner he can stare blankly at the finger-smudged screen.
Eventually, he navigates to Google. And eventually, he begins (hesitantly) to try:
Wireless in the search box. Then: Are you there?
He feels stupid while he waits.
He has to wait for a little bit, although on the scale of real-world time, it isn't very long. At the speed of digital transmissions, Wireless has ample time to study the strange submission from all angles.
Not that this gains her anything much.
One hand catches hold of the punching bag and stills it while she considers. About the only thing Hana can be sure of is that it isn't Rebel — so as she changes her current exercise from energetic offensives to more contained, muscle-memorized katas, Wireless follows the query back to its source.
The Google results page Deckard initially obtained refreshes itself, displaying only one line of text centered where the first hit used to be:
Who wants to know?
Flint sits impressively still (for him) with his hands in his lap away from the keyboard, putting a lot of effort into the process of looking like he isn't up to anything and failing all the same. A passing librarian peers at him over her shoulder to make sure his hands aren't in his pockets and he looks awkwardly back at her for a beat or two before spidering his fingers more naturally back on the edge of the keyboard.
Evidently satisfied, she continues on her way. Without calling the police.
By the time he looks back again, the screen has altered itself into a query and he's left to look scruffily baffled by his own good fortune for a protracted moment before he even starts to think on how to answer. He's slower to type in return:
We met on a boat.
Your hair was messed up but you were still hot and I had
an awesome shirt.
Hana pauses in the midst of her pattern. Straightens up, brusquely shoving sweat-damped hair back from her face, and stalks over to the side of the room to snatch up a bottle of water. She uncaps it and drains down nearly half; only then does she narrow her eyes and return her attention elsewhere.
Very funny.
What do you want, and why should I consider helping?
I want to talk to
a mutual friend.
This is weird. Enough so that Deckard briefly wonders whether or not she can see him squinting dumbly at the cursor pulsing at the end of the line and scuffs self-consciously at the side of his haggard face.
I dunno why you should
help
I could buy you a drink some time.
Hana looks down at the water in her hand for a moment, then downs the remainder.
I think I'll pass.
Capping the bottle and tossing it in a nearby bin, the woman turns and walks back out onto the floor, shaking her head slowly.
Which 'friend'?
Okay.
Offer made offer denied is becoming routine again. Maybe the most consistent link with his past, if he stops to think on it. Which. He doesn't. Beyond a private, distracted frown down at his knees, anyway. It's quick to pass.
He's gay and
his face is messed up.
Standing in the middle of the room, Hana rubs at the creases on her forehead. Of course he is. Who else would it be?
What do you want me to tell him?
It's a long time before Flint get's as far as,
I dunno.
Maybe talking to him in text isn't actually all that much better than trying to do it face to face. There's a loose key near the top of the keyboard — F11 — and low-slung jaw set at a bristly aside, he thumbs at it without regard for its function. Doing so means he doesn't have to look at the screen, which is doubtless beginning to become impatient with how long he's suddenly taking.
Can you give me his number?
Hana doesn't even bother to shake her head this time; there's almost no delay in Wireless' reply. You keep interesting company these days. I don't believe I should. There's a momentary pause, and then a second line follows: I can agree to give him yours, and let him make his own mistakes.
Deckard has enough of himself in himself to look a little miserably chagrined when the computer calls him out on his new day job. He sits by himself for a time again, not typing or looking at the screen. Just self-aware enough to keep his hands up on the desk in clear sight.
Okay.
To Wireless, that spells: conversation concluded. She removes her awareness from Deckard's computer, casting it out elsewhere. Laudani. Deckard asked to talk to you. Tread carefully.
Not that any of them ever really do.
…
Thanks.