In the Dark


deckard_icon.gif eve_icon.gif

Scene Title In the Dark
Synopsis The paths of Deckard and Eve intersect somewhat painfully on a lonely stretch of scrubby beach.
Date March 19, 2009

Staten Island - Coast

The coast of Staten Island is as much of a presence as its inland, with rivers that invade right into its heart as well as cutting off the circulation of transport from the rest of New York City. The coastal regions reflect a lot of this borough's rural nature, with rough shores and plantlife, broken brick, and general abandonment. The harbors are left to the devices of those that freely come and go, a conspicuous lack of official presence - a number of them notably overrun by the developing crime syndicate, but there are still quite a few, particularly on the coasts nearest to Brooklyn and Manhattan, that are accessible to the lawful public.

The air is still save for the occasional beachy breeze — chilly without being particularly cold. Definitely not freezing. Long grass still lifeless at the tail end of winter waves idly along a broken shore, with only a few feet of sand banded between it and the murky water. One set of large footprints breaks the regular pattern of wave action across said sand, stretching out in a weaving gradient of definition and depth from the vague direction of Fresh Kills and a few wavering yellow lights that mark the squat of the Angry Pelican.

The owner of the prints is already well on his way down the beach, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his shabby overcoat. Pretty much everything else about him is shabby as well, from damp cigarette to downtrodden suit to cheap sunglasses that dimly reflect the heavy hang of the moon over the bay.

Directly across from the man is a woman, wearing a dark silk dress and boots, her hair flies in the wind. She walks with her head up looking into the sky, hands clasped in front of her. The woman's light grey eyes catch some light, they look a little strange in this light. Her head is tilted as she is unknowingly making her way directly to the man.

Crazy people are not uncommon on Staten. It's probably not beyond argument that Flint Deckard is gradually being assimilated into their ranks. All the same, he's making a studious effort to avoid peering at the female skeleton that occupies the sand ahead, empty eye sockets turned up to the sky like she expects to see something aside from the occasional airplane. Still, with a beach that's only four or five feet wide, complete avoidance is difficult, and he's forced to slow a little while he drunkenly decides whether he has more room on the right or left to skirt around her.

The crazy female finally blinks and her eyes seem to clear. Her dress rustles as she moves and when she feels whoever is in front of her stop, she does the same. "Seems like we have a predicament." Eve teases and her eyes close briefly, she is talking about the fact that Deckard must choose which way to avoid her.. right?

A smoky sigh furls out through Deckard's sinuses, not quite exasperated enough to become a fully-formed snort. Damp sand has dredged itself up around his boots and trouser legs, suggestive of how long he's been wandering around out here. The stink of whiskey about him and the lax slant of his shoulders is suggestive of what he what he was up to before that. Cigarette tugged out of the corner of his mouth, he taps ash off into the wind and lifts it right back into place. "Don't you have a graveyard somewhere you could be haunting?"

"That's only Tuesdays and Fridays." Eve says in a matter-of-factly tone. She finally looks down to see the man. "Ah the fast man doesn't like you that much." It's said simply, "I'm not liked by him either. Eve blinks at Deckard and looks at him closely. "Been here for a while." Looking down at his clothes and shoes with sand on them.

The fast man doesn't like him much. Now Deckard does snort, right foot sinking a little deeper when his weight levers somewhat more in that direction. Might be the safer way to go, if he doesn't mind getting a little wet. "Feeling's mutual." Apparently lacking the energy or interest necessary for complete sentences, he lets the line of his mouth adopt a cynical slant while one shoulder lifts in a shrug for her observation. Maybe. So?

The man is given a close look. Eve smiles softly and inches closer. She doesn't say a word, just stares at him. Then her gaze goes to the sky. "Moon is back." She observes. "This place needs as much light as it can get.." she says and looks at the sand. "Darkness sweeps over."

Deckard doesn't shrink back or recoil. Can't be bothered, even if he's eyeing her like he might a dog he expects might piss on his shoes. He just stands there and smokes, dusty grey hair in utter disarray, grizzled beard growth bristled out nearly half an inch from the hollow of his jaw. "I can see in the dark. So," one eye squints behind his sunglasses, and he gives a little in a few degrees worth of an awayward lean, "sounds like a personal problem."

"I see too.. the things in the dark." Eve trails off and kneels to run a hand in the sand. "Beware.. the things in the dark that you see." The woman lolls her head and closes her eyes. "It's not always good to see.. not always." She breathes softly and then looks at Deckard with a glare. "Personal.. or everyone's problem." She sketches out something in the sand. A person.. someone Deckard might recognize as Eve begins to finish the sand sketch.

"You sound crazier than usual," says Deckard. It's an observation made without feeling or interest, the low gravel of his voice muffled around the stick of his cigarette. He's slow to tip his head down to watch her poking around in the sand, smoke curling around the heavy drowse of his breath when he sighs against the wind. "S'just…so. Hm." Some track of thought or another is dimly aborted before it does more than stumble off the launch pad and the lean man pushes a hand up over the side of his face.

"Am I as crazy as they say?" she wonders aloud. "Or are they the crazy ones, the ones who cannot see." She specifies to Deckard. As she finishes the picture, she sits back on her heels in the sand. The picture looks very much like Sylar, but Eve.. she knows him as another name now. "Gabriel." She says softly and looks up at Deckard.

A non-committal grunt given in answer to the question of 'how crazy,' Deckard splays already raised fingers around the poke of his smoke and pulls it away, cancerous smog hissed tenuous between his teeth while he angles his head sideways to get a better look at her artwork.

There's never any mistaking the eyebrows, is there?

Even blurry and faded — lines in the sand little more than a ghostly difference in density — recognition of that face is inevitable. Regardless of whether or not the name is. "He's calling himself Tavisha now. I think he plans to join the circus."

"Yeah.. I must remember that." She says and nods at Deckard. "The circus could use him. No more killing that way." Eve shakes her head. "He needs to find himself again." Eve points out, though few people would say they want a serial killer to get his former mind and memories back after losing them. Eve is one of them.

"He will." A little too cheerfully certain on that account, Deckard suppresses a yawn into something that looks like a shiver, and probably is. "Someone should be watching you. Teo and his ff…fucking…halfway house full of insane women. If you can't keep them all fed and sheltered, you shouldn't keep adopting them." Or is that cats? Content that the sentiment applies here as well, he takes one last long drag and flicks his cigarette aside, into the salt water.

That comment earns Deckard a hard punch in the arm as Eve rises. She just raises an eyebrow at him and snorts as she shakes her head. "Things change." Does this have anything to do with their conversation? Most likely not but Eve is saying it anyway.

Half a step staggered back is necessary to stay standing, dubious balance stuck solid enough in thick sand. Solid enough for him to react when delayed pain finally begins to bleed through alcohol saturated muscle, and his right hand swings up on a hair trigger to close around her throat so that he can jerk her in close. Anger has carved its austere way into the lines and angles of his face in approximately zero seconds flat, taking as firm a hold there as smoke and booze has taken on his breath.

Bad idea.. which is why Eve almost always wears dresses with long slits up them and leggings. For free movement. Eve regards Deckard with a smirk and instead of her eyes widening like a frightened girl.. she strikes out with her hand to his stomach and puts her other hand on his hand that is around her neck. The seer's leg comes up and she hops so that the one leg is hooked around Deckard's neck, with a chuckle she spins and she along with Deckard would have crashed to the ground, she sitting on him.

One breath Deckard's contemplating how hard he can squeeze without actually breaking anything, the next he's flat on his back in wet sand with Eve on top of him. The whip of the world around him at high speeds is enough to scramble his senses where a simple punch wasn't, and it takes him longer than it should to refocus his eyes onto the dizzy waver of her skull over his head. His chest rises harsh beneath her, rank breath staggered with frustration and something that may be building its way on to more dangerous fury while he tries to force directions to realign in a way that makes sense. Up cannot be both up and straight ahead. It has to be one or the other.

The crazy woman looks down at Deckard and tilts her head, "You're drunk." She says and just stays seated on his chest. Her legs are pressed against his ribs, anchoring herself there. Her light grey eyes look at his sunglasses. "See.. in the dark.." she mutters and then notices how angry Deckard is getting. "What was your name again?"

Haggard breaths forced in through the nose, out through the mouth, Deckard makes some sort of weird, psuedo-educated attempt to keep from flipping his shit while she's still on top of him, but it's a strained effort at best. His dislodged right hand flexes into a bony claw to the side of her, teeth bared, scruffy head digging hard back into sand and grit. "Fucking FUCK—"

"Nice to meet you, Fucking Fuck." Eve says sincerely and takes that opportunity to stand up from Deckard and look down at him. "Need help?" she asks and tilts her head. She chuckles at Deckard, "Maybe Teo should be watching /you/." She counters.

Eyes squeezed shut and brow knit hard over the black of his glases, Deckard bites off short of something probably better left unsaid. His spine lifts away from its press into the sand when Eve's weight rises off his chest, coat more inclined to linger in the dampness sinking through it. As fast as his temper rose to the forefront, it's sinking away again, heat without direction escaping out into the chilly beach while he catches his breath and makes a concentrated effort to ignore both the offer for help and the insinuation that he needs watching.

A light shrug is given in Deckard's direction. Her gaze goes out to the water, we've met a few times and I don't really know you.." she looks at the old drunk man and dips her head. "Eve." She says and waits to see if he gives his name to her. The woman then turns her head back to the water. "It's like you can get lost in it.. and never come back."

Deckard stays where he is, spirit ebbing out after anger without a struggle. There's a piece of garbage digging in through the back of his coat somewhere around his shoulder, half buried in the sand beneath him. "Flint." The name is given carelessly, breathing slowed to a more regular rise and sift. Next to him, the drawing of Sylar is still in pristine condition save for a scattering of loose sand across the middle.

"Flint.." Eve repeats and nods. The seer looks down and kneels again in the sand, facing in Deckard's direction. "Are you angry often?" a simple question. Her eyes travel to the drawing of Sylar and she narrows her eyes.

"I dunno." The sky overhead is nothing. As black at night as it is in day. No clouds, stars, or moons register. Occasionally there's the delicate ghost of a bat or night bird sweeping out over the water, too quick for him to focus on. Eventually his right hand lifts enough to go browsing under the lapel of his coat, bumping past the exposed band of his shoulder holster in search of cigarettes.

"I don't need a vision to tell you that those things, will kill you." Eve says coolly and eyes Deckard. "Cancer sticks." She warns as if Deckard doesn't already know this. "Perhaps that's why you are so angry.." The utter darkness of the coast does not scare Eve, she likes dark places. Easier to escape from the real world, she thinks.

"What isn't going to kill me?" The list is probably shorter. Deckard doesn't have to move much to get the box out, familiar twitches of long fingers enough to loose a single stick, and eventually, his lighter after it. He's lit up again in a matter of seconds, ignorant of the tide dragging wet at one of his pant legs.

"True.. just don't want to rush it. Unless you have nothing to live for.. do you?" Eve tilts her head and plays with a bit of seaweed on the beach. The woman pulls it apart and tosses it up in the air. The waves bring a calming sense to her, she loves the water.

Box and lighter are snugged down under his suit coat rather than the increasingly damp overcoat, and for a moment or two after he's settled again, Deckard just lies there. The ember of his cigarette glows orange, smoke spirals lazily out of the corner of his mouth. "No." Eventually she gets a simple answer for a complicated question, adam's apple lifting slow under its defensive bristle. "Getting kind of personal."

"I have nothing better to do.. looks like the same for you." Eve observes, midnight black hair is blown into her face, her eerie grey eyes follow the trail of smoke leaving from Deckard. A moment later, Eve begins to hum a sweet and soft tune. The sound is haunting and at the same time beautiful. She closes her eyes and sways from side to side.

A brow tipped up for his own absence of argument otherwise, Deckard tips his head over enough to squint at her when she starts the whole humming and swaying thing. Thinly veiled skepticism can't be bothered into outright cynicism. Soon enough he's back to staring at nothing.

Words.. lyrics escape from Eve. She sings of the darkness of night and how things cannot be seen. The dark lyrics take a turn for the hopeful when she finishes the song with a the light finally shining through, so everything is revealed. A crab crawls across the hem of her dress and she lays her hand out. The little creature climbs onto her palm and tries to pinch her palm but she grabs it from the back before it can. "No, no, no."

Deckard moves enough to tap ash off the end of his cigarette before it can blow back into his face. Then enough to retrieve his wallet from the overcoat. His wallet. Logan's wallet. Whatever. It's his now. Said piece of leather is transferred into his suit after his cigarettes, and slowly, he starts pushing up into a sit, arms dragged out of sand-heavy overcoat sleeves as he goes. Damp sand is crusted into his hair and around his jaw as well, a rough brush of his hand enough to dislodge the worst of it.

"Ready to leave?" Eve asks as if they came here together, maybe fate brought them here together at this time. "I think it's time to find a place to sleep tonight." Eve stands up and looks at Deckard. "Ok getting home?"

Loose sand skims down under Deckard's collar and down the grey back of his suit — the dry stuff happy to go, the wet stuff more inclined to clod and cling. Head shaken hard to clear out the rest of it, he staggers sideways into the surf, pretends he meant to, and starts walking again without an answer, dark water swirling quiet around his calves. The overcoat is left behind, empty of him and his possessions to rot away or not with a couple of spare tires and pieces of drift wood.

Eve stoops to pick the jacket up and hold it in her arms. "I'll give it to you later, when you need it." She calls softly and turns to walk the other direction. Her dress rustles in the wind. The footsteps she makes going the opposite way.. beside Deckard's going forward as she goes backward.

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