Participants:
| Scene Title | Interesting Positions |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A mysterious Homeland Security associate comes seeking Felix Ivanov about a missing girl. |
| Date | March 11, 2010 |
"The world is a miserable, lonely place."
Those words are spraypainted across the hall leading up to Felix Ivanov's one-room apartment in the bowrey of Chinatown. The drooling red paint is fresh, maybe two days old, but it only covers up other slogans and images that vandalize the cheap residence. The neighbors upstairs are having noisy sex again, the clatter-bang of headboard against wall and muffled moaning making for the awkward backdrop to the hallway's otherwise silent decour.
One man is the only feature coming up the stairs from the street and the entrance, dark suit pressed neatly, black overcoat buttoned up and collar raised. Were Felix Ivanov any less lucky, this would be Carlisle Dreyfus coming to finish what was started in Russia. But this man has thirty years more youth on Carlisle and all the color in his brown hair.
As he walks by the apartment doors leading to the doors at the end of the hall, his shadow grows longer and darker by merit of his approach to the singular window shedding dismal gray light in from the cloudy skies outside.
When he approaches the door, the gentleman caller balled up gloved fingers into a fist and knocks soundly four times against the space above the peephole. "Felix Ivanov," he projects with that practiced scent of authority that a government agent would.
Except that he doesn't classify himself from any agency.
And Fel comes lunging out of his apartment with the enthusiasm of a badger looking for a fight. The door's flung open - happily, it opens -inward-, so the spook there doesn't get clocked in the jaw with cheap particleboard. He's brought up short at the realization it's a colleague, of some kind…..or a rival. He doesn't -quite- sniff the air like a wolf, but there's that aura to him. "I am he," he says, formally, English suddenly accented.
He's in jeans and a t-shirt and those black framed glasses, eyeing this visitor with overt suspicion. "Who're you?" Beyond him, it's a neat little studio, spartan and bare in its decor. A wall of bookshelves divides "bedroom" from living room area. There are almost no personal touches, save the shelves themselves crammed full of books, and some landscape prints on the walls. Painfully clean, what can be seen of it.
"My name is Desmond Harper, I'm here under the authority of the Department of Homeland Security." There's a rather matter-of-fact expression on the young man's face as he tilts his head back, looks down the bridge of his nose and angles a squint at Felix, reaching slowly inside of his jacket to withdraw a badge folio, revealing an idenfication card for DHS "Special Services".
Angling a look inside of the apartment Harper furrows his brows and then glances back to Felix with a firm expression of scrutiny. "I'm here to discuss with you the technopath terrorist attack on Little Italy that resulted in one fatality and several injuries. I'd like to discuss something involving that case with you, in private."
He's not sure if he should be insulted or pleased that Harper is at his home. What passes for it. Really, home, if there is one, is four hours north in the person of one very grumpy cook and Boston cop. But…better this than the office? Fel looks him over with a decided lack of enthusiasm, narrow eyes made even longer by that squint. "Liette," he says, and it's barely a breath. But he steps back, to admit this other agent, after a glance at the badge. He shuts the door, gentle.
"I'd appreciate it if you don't spread her name around. She's a high-value personnel in an ongoing investigation." Stepping slowly across the floor, Harper furrows his brows and looks around the apartment, to the peeling paint and the cracked ceiling with coffee-colored water spots, to the way the scratches and scuffs on the hardwood floor suggest decades of people moving in and out. Looking ot his right, the darkly dressed man recognizes the cork-board riddles with yarn strings over a map of the United States, newspaper clippings and photographs, pishpins and tags and business cards, all tracking the maneuvers of the serial killer known as Sylar.
"You're a very dedicated and decorated man, Mister Ivanov." Harper turns slowly, finally putting his folio back in his jacket, tucking both hands into his pockets. "I've read your profile thorugh and through, which is why I came here face to face instead of sending you through hoops. The girl that was at the accident was being escorted to a secure location for questioning in a very sensitive investigation that the Department is persuing. Her handler was killed in the accident, and we'd like to get her back before she causes any danger to the people around her.
Eyeing the coffee table, Harper looks at the old dog-eared copy of Activating Evolutions with a coffee ring on the cover, then back up to Felix. "She possesses an inherently dangerous Evolved power that, if she fell into the wrong hands, could reproduce the events of the Midtown explosion. I'll be straight with you, Felix…" that wasn't a gay joke was it, "we dropped the ball, big time, and we know you have contacts everywhere in the city. Do you think you could let us know if you hear about her turning up?" Harper pulls one hand out of his pocket, offering a photograph to Felix, depicting a black and white crosswalk camera shot of the dead handler and his young ward.
It has to be a gay joke. Felix is by definition a gay joke. He doesn't snarl, he doesn't offer Harper that exquisite sneer. He takes the photo in hand, looks it over. "I don't recall seeing her," he says, but it's not denial. It's merely a statement of fact. "And I imagine it's not up to me to pass it on if I do hear about her from official channels. You've got that name flagged. If scuttlebutt on the street turns up something, well, I'll let you know. What's her power?" he wonders, handing it back.
The one real personal touch is the icon in the little kitchenette. Not visible when you first look in….but since they've come far enough. Obviously antique, it's set on a little shelf high up in the corner. There's a ruby glass vigil light burning before it, filling the air with the scent of sweet oil. A strange intimation of roses, in the gray season after the end of true winter and before Spring.
"Classified." Harper states quietly as he reaches out to take the file photograph back. "She's a multiple power user, that's about all you need to know. She has about sixteen abilities currently listed, more than half of them destructive. We need to get her off the street and back into our hands immediately, the only problem is that one of her powers renders her difficult to discern via clairvoyants, so we're stuck with the traditional feet to pavement outlook."
Tucking the photograph back into his jacket, Harper furrows his brows and glances out one of the half-curtained windows to the snowy vista of Chinatown below. "We have reason to believe a subversive technopath agent formerly connected to the Vanguard may be responsible for the traffic accident. There was an operative that eluded capture during Operation Apollo, a Chinese Vanguard operative who may or may not have been working with the People's Liberation Army, went by the codename Behemoth. He dropped off the radar towards the tail end of the operation, and we suspect he may be involved."
Looking towards Felix again, Harper's expression is a guarded one. "If you find out about her, don't use electronic communication methods. If it was Behemoth involved he likely is aware of your presence and involvement. Phone lines, networked computers, computers with a wireless adapter, nothing's safe. You can contact my office directly through the DHS offices."
It's like he's too tired to argue. Behind the black-rimmed glasses, his eyes are infinitely weary. Sucks being the Batman when you got no money, got no butler, got no wonderful toys. Just OCD, a badge, and a gun. Got to assume the other government goons are on your side, or it does really veer off into tinfoil hat territory. "Understood," he says, quietly. "There a code word I should use or somethin', or just mention I found what you were looking for? How's she got so many tricks up her sleeve? She a thief or a copycat?" He jerks his chin at the little cord and pushpin testament to obsession. "And she's the Mcguffin - Behemoth is after her?" Because things aren't grim enough in New York City. He strokes his chin, absentmindedly, like he's pondering taking off that goatee.
"Nothing dangerous," Harper evades answering the question, "It's a form of mimicry. If you find her, just ask for me and I'll be there, with bells on." Shooting a glance towards the map on the wall again, Harper breathes in slowly then exhales a sigh and offers a look back to Felix. "You've got a lot of eyes on you right now with this Sylar case you're investigating, you might be in line for a promotion is all goes well. There's some new initiatives going on that may line up just right for you…"
Both of Harper's brows raise as he turns slowly and starts heading for the door from where he was, "Just something to keep in mind, Felix…" There's a flash of a smile as he looks over his shoulder, turning the doorknob and opening it out into the hall. "You've been, somehow, making a lot of friends at the top. Keep up the good work, maybe one day you'll be working under me," Harper notes with a grin as he steps out into the hall and closes the door.
That was a gay joke.