Participants:
| Scene Title | In the Back Row |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two old enemies friends frenemies meet to talk and affirm they're still alive. |
| Date | December 14, 2010 |
Movie Theatre
Heavy curtains of red three stories tall stand open to either side of the stage at the end of the great room, rows and rows of seats leading back towards the doors with just enough of a rise to it that one can see over their forward neighbor's head. The acoustics reduce conversation to a murmur but the music playing over the speakers fills the hall with glory.
It's places like this that Eric Doyle feels most at home, most happy. If someone were to ask, the only improvement that he'd made would be to take that big white screen out of the way and construct a scaffolding for plays and puppet shows on a grand scale.
It's just before one in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and nobody's going to the movies except a handful of people scattered in the seats - less than five, at a quick count - certainly not to see Burlesque. That's an evening expedition to most. The puppeteer's there, though, settled into the back row with a tub of popcorn in his lap. He's cleaned up for today - trimmed and tamed his beard a bit, and he's dressed in a nice white button-up shirt and khaki pants as he waits for the trailers to start. Occasionally he'll glance over to the entrance doors, as if expecting to see someone.
That someone wasn't about to pay for a ticket to this show. Especially not since she doesn't intend to actually watch it. No. Odessa Price merely appears in the seat to Doyle's right her left hand extended toward him, a bag of candy settled in her palm.
"Jelly Baby?" the white haired woman offers, staring straight ahead at the screen. As though seeing the man she's here to speak with is something she does all the time. Not the type of situation worthy of a prolonged, meaningful glance. A shared look.
Not yet anyway. Odessa peer out of the corner of her eye. — She kept him to her left for a reason. To keep him out of her (literal) blind spot.
The sudden appearance of the temporal manipulator causes Doyle to jerk in startlement - the tub of popcorn jumping in his hand, a few fluffy kernels tumbling to the floor, lost amongst the sticky residue of spilt cola and whatever else lurks on the theater's floor. "Jesus," he mutters, pulling the tub back and reaching out a hand to accept one of the jelly babies with a wry smile curling to his lips, "Don't do that, Brooke."
He calls her that without even thinking. He doesn't seem to notice, either.
After he pops the gummi treat into his mouth, chewing, he jokingly asks, "So there gonna be a bunch of guys storming in to arrest me in a minute, or did you just miss seeing these baby blues?" He always did have a odd sense of humor. His eyes aren't even blue!
The sudden appearance of the temporal manipulator causes Doyle to jerk in startlement - the tub of popcorn jumping in his hand, a few fluffy kernels tumbling to the floor, lost amongst the sticky residue of spilt cola and whatever else lurks on the theater's floor. "Jesus," he mutters, pulling the tub back and reaching out a hand to accept one of the jelly babies with a wry smile curling to his lips, "Don't do that, Brooke."
He calls her that without even thinking. He doesn't seem to notice, either.
After he pops the gummi treat into his mouth, chewing, he jokingly asks, "So there gonna be a bunch of guys storming in to arrest me in a minute, or did you just miss seeing these baby blues?" He always did have a odd sense of humor. His eyes aren't even blue!
If the name bothers her, Odessa doesn't correct it. Maybe it's just as well that he not use her real name. Or maybe it doesn't feel right on his lips. At any rate, she lets it pass.
The joke, however, leaves her looking wounded. She has the blue eyes. And these days, it's only one eye that's blue. The other is so scarred, it'd be difficult to say what colour it used to be if one didn't have the other to compare it to. "No, Eric," Odessa assures in a quiet voice. "I have no intention of doing that to you." She silent for the space of a couple moments before she turns to flash him a somewhat incredulous look. "Besides, I would just sedate you. I wouldn't make a scene." Gawd.
If she were blind and eyeless, Doyle would remember what her eyes look like. But he's… detail oriented like that.
A grin curves to his lips, almost boyish, and he reaches over to nudge her shoulder with an elbow. "I was teasing you," he murmurs, leaning back again and proffering the tub of popcorn, "Popcorn? You're looking well."
"For a woman with only one eye and a face full of scars to show for her efforts to be a better person?" Odessa's jostled slightly, rocking to her right and then back into place again like one of those inflatable clowns.
At least she has better make-up.
"Thanks," she murmurs, either to the compliment or the offer of popcorn, which she takes him up on, reaching into the bucket to grab a handful of kernels. "Your organisation must be doing something right. We can't seem to find you." She smirks at that, not bitter, but proud of the Ferry for hiding themselves.
A folded sheet of paper is procured from the woman's jacket pocket and flippantly tossed into Doyle's lap. "If you see that guy, you need to call the number on that sheet right away. Tell the others in your organisation as well. He's dangerous," her voice lowers to a soft whisper even below her previous low murmur, "and if intel is correct, may have the ability to cause another Midtown."
On the paper is a printed photo of a man named Amid Halebi, suspected to be travelling with his daughter, and possessing a radiation ability similar to the one that caused the decimation of Manhattan. At the bottom of the page in the white space is a phone number scrawled in Odessa's handwriting. "It's good to see you," is almost backhanded after all that.
The first question, aggressive as it is, isn't answered. Eric doesn't even flinch. He reaches out to take the paper before it vanishes into the bucket of popcorn and gets stained in butter, his thumb shearing between the two edges and unfolding it to look at. The photograph and brief dossier are looked over with a serious expression, and he nods once, his lips pursing in a thin line.
"I'll pass it on to the… guys that handle that sort've thing," he says with a little shake of his head, folding it up again and shifting so he can push it into a pocket of his pants, steadying again, "I just take care've the kids. I can't promise they'll call the number though— " A wry look over, "— they might want to take care of it themselves."
His gaze sweeps back to the screen as the theater darkens suddenly, as the little skit about the exits and cell phones is played out by cartoon characters on a thirty-foot screen. "You always look beautiful to me," he says quietly, then, answering that rhetorical question finally.
"They shouldn't try to handle it themselves. He's liable to go nuclear if he's damaged," Odessa warns. But she knows it's a crap shoot giving information like this to the Ferry, given who she believes to be in charge. She can only hope that if it comes down to it, they make the right decision on how to act.
Her eye is on the screen, but Odessa's attention is focused solely on Doyle. "But all the better in dark hair and chains?" she asks sardonically.
"I liked the dark hair better," Eric admits, "The chains, well…"
There's silence for just a moment, before he finishes, "…they weren't my idea. But we never would've been brought together without them, you know. Maybe you wouldn't regret that…" A mirthless half-chuckle, gaze dropping as the trailers start, rummaging in the tub, "…but I would."
"I'm glad we reconnected this way," Odessa admits softly. "I could have done without the whole prison stint, and abuse, an' morphine addiction, though." Such is the nature of their relationship.
"If I die," which is the crux of why they're here together in this old movie theatre in the early afternoon for a film neither of them wants to see, "I want you to know that I care about you." Odessa fishes a candy from the package in her lap, frowning and squinting at it in the dark to discern its colour before dropping it back into the bag to find a flavour she likes.
"I could've done without Level Five," Doyle replies with a low chuckle, his head shaking slightly. So goes their relationship, born out of imprisonment and sadism and apathy. It's not exactly healthy, probably.
At her words, he's silent for a few moments, crunching a few kernels of popcorn down and shaking others in the palm of his hand. "Thanks," he finally says, quietly, "I appreciate that. I'd really rather you didn't, I mean, nobody should be allowed to kill you but me." Beat. "And vice versa. You know."
"Agreed." There's no nod of the woman's head to accompany it. Instead, she reaches over and rests her hand over his. Maybe Odessa will stay for the whole film after all.