Icy Interactions


tracy_icon.gif matt_icon.gif

Scene Title Icy Interactions
Synopsis After Spiriting her away from the press conference, Matt confronts Tracy about her manifestation and reveals where he's actually been lately. Tracy has her own secrets to shed as well.
Date June 22, 2009

New York City

Tracy never saw the man that grabbed her. She knew it was a man, but she didn't know who. All she knows is that she's got her well-manicured hands wrapped around a frozen pole with sharp, jagged edges as she's pulled along through the darkness of a stairwell. With a loud metalic crash, an emergency exit is thrown open and Tracy stumbles out in the half-light of an alley, spinning away from her…grabber. He saved her? He's capturing her? All she knows is that she grabbed him. Weilding her pole she spins, eyes blazing in their own icy way. "Who are you?"

But the shadows of the alley in the middle of the alley are nothing compared to the artificial ones back inside, where the press conference was held. And even beneath his stubble and unkempt hair, behind the bags beneath his eyes, it is unmistakably Matt Parkman.

The suit he wears is clean, if wrinkled, and he looks less sane than his usual composed self. He stares at Tracy a moment, but his eyes quickly snap to the weapon in her hands. The…frozen weapon.

"Tracy…" he says, but only part of his voice carries that calming tone of a cop trying to talk down a potential threat. The rest of it trembles in something that could be called exhaustion as easily as it could be called fear.

The fact that the weapon is frozen is not something that's crossed Tracy's mind. Yet. "Chrissake, Parkman." She sighs, lowering the metal pipe/stand peice, letting it slip from her fingers. Instead of bouncing a few times before settling on the asphault, there's the sound of breaking glass, shattering ice as it busts into nothing but shards, scattering about the alleyway as though they were droplettes of water. But they're not. That would have been even weirder. Tracy stands, eyes looking down at the sudden mess she's made with…confusion. And then? Understanding. Resolve. "Mortimer Jack, you son of a bitch," she hisses beneath her breath.

Who? Parkman takes a step back as the shards scatter, glancing repeatedly between the debris and Tracy. On any other day, he would have dismissed the name and done his best to explain what was happening to her. But given his own current state, Parkman narrows his eyes and steps forward, his shoes crunching the bits of once-pole as he closes the distance between himself and the White House staff member, reaching to try and grab her upper arms and hold her still.

"Dammit, Tracy," he growls. "Who the fuck is Mortimer?!" And what did he do to give Tracy Strauss, of all people, an ability?

Tracy is disoriented, that's one way of putting it. Her eyes remain on the shards, and she motions with one hand toward them, but she lets him hold her still, relatively. "Moritmer Jack, that little… he did this. I don't know how, maybe he was in the crowd, he did it before…the straight jacket, when he kidnapped me, the straight jacket did the exact same thing." She turns her eyes to look dead at Parkman, her face more serious than it's ever been. "Mortimer Jack did it, Parkman. Not me."

"From across the room?" Parkman asks, his eyes searching Tracy's. But there's little he can find there. He can't pull the memory from her mind for his own inspection. "I've never seen that. I've seen a lot, but I've never seen that." He grits his teeth, then squeezes her arms. "Go get your ass tested." Because if Mortimer Jack, whoever he may be, did something to alter Tracy's genes, then maybe he can do something for Parkman. And Molly.

Tracy has stone-faced eyes at first. "Yes. From across the room. I've seen him do it." Even if he could go into her memory, which he expects him to do, he'd see what Tracy saw - the straight jacket, Mortimer walking in with steel-grey eyes, claiming to have done it. She doesn't believe it, but she needs Parkman to right now. She has the memory front and center in her brain, almost offering it to him. BUt he can't take it. "I've been tested Parkman, stop being an idiot. He did it, he's done it before. He's doing it to threaten me - for the list. Remember the list I needed, Parkman?" She points an accusatory finger at hte melting shards. "That's why I need the list!"

There is a moment in which Parkman doesn't speak, merely staring at the woman he holds tightly in his hands. With a grunt and the slightest of shoves, he releases her, his face curling into an quiet snarl. "To save your own damned hide," he scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sorry I didn't get it to you sooner," he continues, adopting a mocking air of propriety. "Been a little busy being locked in a goddamned basement." He takes a deep, exasperated breath and turns, raking his hands through his hair. "Shit, Tracy. I shouldn't have come today."

Tracy remains a few steps away from him. She doesn't know what she could do to him - but she knows it's her. "I wasn't going to give it to him, I needed him to know I had it. It's complicated politics, don't sully yourself with it." She remains where she is, crossing her arms just beneath her breasts as she glances down the ally. No one's coming. No DHS, no assasains falling from the sky. Nothing. No one knows they're here. "Basement, what are you talking about? We had falafels the other day, when did you go into a basement?"

But Parkman turns in an instant and barrels toward her, his face ruddy with building rage. "Do I look like I had falafels with you the other day, Tracy? Do I?" His hair is longer - in desperate need of a trim, and the stubble on his face is older than five-o-clock. "You didn't have falafels with me." A shiver spears through him, and it takes Parkman a moment to get control of himself again. "You have falafels with my father."

Tracy takes a half-step back, lifting her hands in defense. There is a defense there now, even if Parkman doesn't know. And after this? He can never know. "You touch me Parkman and I promise you it'll be the very last stupid mistake you ever make in a long line of stupid mistakes." She keeps her hands there, waiting for him to continue talking. Because he's talking about something that interests her, it's written all over her face. "Shapeshifting?"

The last thing Parkman wants to do is touch Tracy. Well, maybe not the last thing, but it's pretty far down that list. "No," he barks back, turning again and beginning to pace some small portion of the alley. "He does what I do-…did. Dammit." What else has Maury been up to while enjoying his Matt-Mask? Parkman's fingers curl into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

Tracy continues to glare, tilting her head slightly toward him and down in that….well that way that she and her sister do, expressing her anger. "You have a lot of explaining to do and it needs to start happening in full sentances. Call me crazy but I almost got shot in the head today and I'm not looking to play games. If you have something to say, Parkman, say it."

"Not yet."

The words come through clenched teeth. "Not yet," he repeats, taking another breath and straightening, his back to Tracy. "But when I do, you'll listen. To all of it." And it will be the truth. A truth so cold it will shatter her to her bones.

He might be surprised about that. "Then stop wasting my time. It's great that you pulled me out of the line of fire, but if you're not going to talk to me, don't expect anything from me." She has little time for people who waste her time, and little time for people who hide things from her. Tracy likes to be in the know, and what she doens't know, she usually finds out. "When you feel like getting your ass back togther, there's a new operation you probably want to be in on, since it's going to happen under your name." She turns, then, heading for the mouth of hte alley, only a few wet stains left on the asphault from the shattered pole.

"Whatever it is, it can wait. This is bigger." Much bigger. Parkman starts to walk away, not seeing any reason to address her condemnation. Sure, sure. He won't waste her time again. Or his. There's too much to be done, anyway.

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