In the Name of Hope


abby_icon.gif tamara_icon.gif

Scene Title In the Name of Hope
Synopsis A delivery requested is finally made, accompanied by cryptic comments, the chance to change minds, and movie time.
Date April 7, 2010

Le Rivage: Abby's Apartment

The place looks like it's only made for temporary living. Couch and coffee table from goodwill, small TV and DVD player as well as an large bird cage and Cat that looks unhappy to be here. Mattresses in the three bedrooms with bedding on them along with laundry baskets turned on their sides to perform as storage for clothing. Safehouses frankly look better than here. The kitchen with the signs of takeout as opposed to home cooking. All in all though, the place looks like an okay play to stay short term.

Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun is setting. So the dimming light outside suggests, at any rate; it's neither red nor orange, simply gray, and fading. A little warmer than past days, but the snow and ice remains abundant; warmer than before is still cold. The girl who pauses before Abigail's door is dressed accordingly in a heavy brown coat and black jeans, once-white sneakers still dappled with bits of melting snow. Her long hair is tied back in a tail, held away from blue eyes and somber expression. The tap of Tamara's fingers isn't a classical knock, but a drumming patter; it doesn't need to be loud. It will be heard.

The creak of the floor on the other side of the door so quickly means that Abigail was near the door. Hanging up her uniform after having washed and ironed it, ready for shift or being called in. So far, no call but the night is young and there's two beautiful women with just a door between them.

Soon to be less as Abigail undoes the locks and opens it for the pre-cog with a grim smile. "How's it going?" Whihc could get many answers back, both vague or unintelligible from the other woman. "I just put coffee on," the jean-and-layered-shirt older blonde offers. Because coffee is hot and delightful on a cold freaking snowy April.

The seeress shakes her head slightly, even as she steps into the apartment. "No coffee," Tamara demurs, offering a smile. "It snows," she continues, in the cavalier nonchalance appropriate to discussion of the weather. The tense of the verb is, inevitably, incorrect; but whether she means snowed or will snow… who could say? "You can have coffee," the girl adds brightly, as if it weren't a statement of the perfectly obvious. She walks past Abby, ducking around around the coffee table to pause beside the birdcage, fingers brushing against its wire bars. There's a double-take then, as if Tamara abruptly realized she forgot to do something; she twists to look back at Abby. "How are you?" the girl inquires politely.

"It snows," the blonde agrees, even if for now, it seems to have stopped. There's a glance out a window that's got its blinds half raised before she heads towards the kitchen. The floorspace similar to Judah's. "Tired. Busy. But you knew that already." Bandage still covers part of her forehead, just a fresh one and the prickles on her face have disappeared though the UV green ones would still be there at least today if one were to look. "Still have a job despite crashing an ambulance. Peters decided he's going to drive for a bit."

That Tamara said something remotely appropriate for visiting someone makes the corner of the blonde's lips turn up in a smile. "Other than that, same old same old. Russians, ex-boyfriends, hurt people and all that." The coffee pot is picked up, one of the things brought with the exodus from the bar and black liquid pours into a mug. "I know why you're here." But then, Tamara knows that Abby knows about why she's here. Pre-cogs.

"Knowing is like wet soap. Sometimes it slides away." Having imparted those words of wisdom, she moves around the birdcage and its stand, fingers trailing over the wires; thence to the window, prying apart the slats of the blinds so she can peer outside. Apparently ducking to look under the half-raised blind is too much trouble. "I was only here if you wanted," Tamara remarks, without looking back, without turning away from the window. "If it's sure."

"Future's always changing. Something happens, and it makes another path. And knowing it, changes it sometimes. Or sooo, a wise old asian owl once told me." Away from the kitchen Abigail meanders, socked feet heading for the blinds to peer out with her. "See a Russian? So far, I don't think they know I live here yet."

But, there's more important things to talk about other than ships, shoes, ceiling wax, cabbages or Kings. Well, possibly Kings. She doens't answer right off the bat, just presses pink lips together while blue eyes seek out a glimpse of air beyond building and the clouds. "I'm sure." She bobs her head. "I'm scared. Deathly scared. But I'm sure, Tamara. I have to try. Anything in the hopes of saving a dying man who'd do the same for me."

"Only snow," the girl replies, stepping away from the window. She turns to face Abigail, head canting just slightly. "Death wasn't here," she says softly, somberly. "Not here, not now. The wheel glares in fractured blinding bits." Tamara's lips press together in a thin, bittersweet smile. "It's all the mirror could offer."

"Well that's comforting." Death isn't coming in a syringe. Abigail still looks out the window, her own fingers on one hand hooked through the slats. "You bring a lot more than you think, Tamara. You bring a lot of things." Lips press together and then she slants her own eyes sideways before turning to settle her butt against the window sill and look across the barren apartment.

"So what happens now? I know it involves a needle." There's a shudder at that. "Lord on high, I hate it when I have to get one. Nooo problems doing it to someone else."

"If you want your coffee first…" But it never quite gets to be a question. That melancholic curve of lips reappears as the seeress' voice trails off, knowing. She unzips her coat, reaching into an inner pocket; when her hand withdraws, its fingers are curled around a rounded glass ampoule, not yet assembled into a needled syringe. Less chance of mishap that way. The liquid within the glass is blood-red, and glows faintly in the dim indoor lighting. "You can close your eyes," Tamara offers softly.

For some reason, Abby thought it would be green. Or blue, or even yellow. Clear. Red, though. Like the apple from the tree of knowledge and the vision that Joseph had given her so long ago. "Yeah, I think I'll close my eyes. Think I'll sit down too. Save my coffee for after. I'll probably want it real bad." Some part of her thanks god that there's been no call to work. "How long till I know. If it worked?" She heads away from the sibyl, towards the second hand couch so she can sit down on it, cross her legs at the ankles and push a sleeve up after the coffee's put on the coffee table.

"It worked when it worked," the seeress answers simply, helpful as that isn't. As Abby moves to the couch, Tamara assembles the syringe; walks softly around the furniture and kneels beside, closing her fingers around the young woman's arm, skin tangibly cooled from having been recently outside. The needle isn't, as it pierces Abby's skin, no hesitation and no uncertainty in its insertion. Afterwards, the needle is capped again, twisted free of the syringe and pieces tucked away in that same interior pocket; all the while, Tamara remains where she sits, head bowed and her cheek pressed against the side of the couch, blue eyes closed.

Just like that. Abigail turns her face away when the hand closes on her arm, flinch as needle bites into skin and delivers the red liquid. From non-evolved, to evolved, some ability — hopefully healing — to be granted by whim of changing genetics. She presses a finger to the spot, rubbing at the puncture spot with pursed lips. When would she know? Sometime, sooner rather than later. Abigail reaches out, strokes a hand along Tamara's hair. "For what it's worth. Thank you, Tamara. For doing it."

Tamara doesn't stir as Abby's hand runs over her hair, doesn't look up or open her eyes, the rise and fall of her shoulders a plainly visible marker of each breath the girl takes. It's only a few moments later that she shakes her head, a hand reaching up to rub across her face, then dried off against the surface of her coat. The girl clambers up to her feet, smiles brightly at Abigail; and the subject of gratitude, of needles, of gaining abilities is pitched to the wayside quite deliberately. "You can drink your coffee and we can watch a movie," she declares, mercurial descent into youthful enthusiasm taking hold.

"Blazing Saddle. I was planning on watching it. Oh no, the sheriff is black. It's so bad, but I love it." Abigail quiet, very aware of what she's just done and concerned that the pre-cog went quiet like that. But what the woman wants, the young woman gets and she fetches her coffee to amble forth and find the DVD in question. Laundry can be done later, dinner already consumed and leftovers in the fridge. "We can play cards too if you like."

Still bundled up in her coat, Tamara settles into the corner of the couch; she does kick off her shoes, the better to tuck her feet up onto its seat. She grimaces at the mention of cards, for all that Abby's away getting the DVD and can't see her expression. "No, just sort them," the girl replies, as if a sorted deck were useful; it generally isn't. In the end, however, the cards will wait for another day; the movie comes first, or at least the half of it Tamara remains awake through, and by the time Abigail herself rouses from sleep, the seeress will have pulled her usual disappearing trick once again.

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