It's A Little Dreary


alia_icon.gif doyle_icon.gif hadley_icon.gif wendy_icon.gif

Scene Title It's A Little Dreary
Synopsis A convergence of people in central adds to a scavenger hunt of abilities, a hand slapping, a painting no one wants and a very persistent pigeon.
Date July 3, 2009

Central Park

Central Park has been, and remains, a key attraction in New York City, both for tourists and local residents. Though slightly smaller, approximately 100 acres at its southern end scarred by and still recovering from the explosion, the vast northern regions of the park remain intact.

An array of paths and tracks wind their way through stands of trees and swathes of grass, frequented by joggers, bikers, dog-walkers, and horsemen alike. Flowerbeds, tended gardens, and sheltered conservatories provide a wide array of colorful plants; the sheer size of the park, along with a designated wildlife sanctuary add a wide variety of fauna to the park's visitor list. Several ponds and lakes, as well as the massive Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, break up the expanses of green and growing things. There are roads, for those who prefer to drive through; numerous playgrounds for children dot the landscape.

Many are the people who come to the Park - painters, birdwatchers, musicians, and rock climbers. Others come for the shows; the New York Shakespeare Festival at the Delacorte Theater, the annual outdoor concert of the New York Philharmonic on the Great Lawn, the summer performances of the Metropolitan Opera, and many other smaller performing groups besides. They come to ice-skate on the rink, to ride on the Central Park Carousel, to view the many, many statues scattered about the park.

Some of the southern end of the park remains buried beneath rubble. Some of it still looks worn and torn, struggling to come back from the edge of destruction despite everything the crews of landscapers can do. The Wollman Rink has not been rebuilt; the Central Park Wildlife Center remains very much a work in progress, but is not wholly a loss. Someday, this portion of Central Park just might be restored fully to its prior state.

It's not sunny. She wishes it could be sunny but it's not. Wendy is taking a day from chipping at plaster and filling her loft with dust to sit out in the park again. No sketching for tourists today, nope. She's set up with her easel, a huge rolling case of oils, paintbrushes, canvas stretched taught over a frame. Painting the ravaged skyline as opposed to the more prettier atmosphere that the park offers if she but turned her back. The lack of rain means that people have come out to walk their dogs, let their children unleash energy on the unsuspecting squirrels and wildlife of the park. Means too that Wendy occasionally gets distracted, a look over her shoulder as she looks for something that no one else feels or see's.

Skinny leg worn denim, black turtleneck that doesn't quite reach the waist of the low slung jeans, flats and a ratty button down that's seen many a day as a smock it tied around her waist, black hair pinned back in a ponytail to avoid getting oils in her hair. SHe the proverbial artist that dots the park.

The ageless symbol of the New York Yankees is emblazoned upon the front of a ballcap that's tugged down a bit by a broad hand, shadowing further a freshly-shaven face that some people would love - or hate - to lay their eyes upon. Eric Doyle. The fugitive makes his way along through Central Park at an unhurried meander, hands clasped behind his back in a twine of clever fingers, spine curved in a dispirited slouch and a frown creasing the man's fleshy face. His gaze is mostly downcast, though as he notices an easel set up he pauses a dozen feet behind the artist, head tilting a bit to sweep his attention over the artwork, managing the faintest of smiles for it.

Alia walks about the park, skateboard tucked under one arm, backpack slung over her shoulders, a simple green t-shirt and well-cared-for jeans covering her. Her tennis shoes aren't remarkable, in fact, very little seems to be so about this quiet young lady as she pushes her red baseball cap to look about the park, smiling at the sound of children playing, and honestly not really paying attention to where she is going, if she's going anywhere in particular at all.

It's like some North arrow just zinged to directly behind her, the closer Doyle came, the more she felt it. And then there's another one, crossing, passing. Another little inner arrow broad and nearly neon in sensation following along with Alia. "You can come closer" Offered to Doyle. "It's not a very cheerful painting but i'm almost done" A friendly smile offered for the older man before she sticks two fingers into her mouth, non paint stained ones and gives a sharp whistle to Alia. "Hey! Miss! Come over here for a moment!?"

Alia pauses as she's called over towards the painting by the painter. She approaches warily, a curious look on her face as to why her attention was requested.

A hesitant sort of smile twitches upon Doyle's lips, as if he's afraid to make it become a full one; or if, perhaps, he's afraid of what she might say next. "It's— I don't, I mean, I don't want to disturb, miss," he allows uncertainly, though he does walk a little closer, one foot in front of the other until he pauses near to the easel. The other's regarded curiously, head cocking a bit to size her up in a brief glance.

"Neever a disturbance. Just painting. Criticism is always welcome. or compliments, artist's prefer compliments" She gives a broad smile to the large gentleman before looking to Alia. Out comes Wendy's palm, an offer to shake the other woman's hand. Yup, evolved. The desire to know what kind of evolved though. She can't resist. "Wendy Hunter. I thought I might introduce myself. This is…" She looks over to Doyle in the hopes that he'll introduce himself.

Alia shakes the hand idly though her eyes never really leave the painting. She flicks her eyes between it and the model, before pointing to a few windows and saying, rather simply. 'cracks for mood.' Her eyes shimmer with intelligence as she grins. "Alia" She skips giving her surname.

"Jason." It's blurted out almost too quickly, just as the words that follow are, tumbling over one another as if to make up for the social clumsiness of the man speaking them, "Jason, uh, Tyminski. It's, uh, it's polish. I think." A breath's taken in, slowly, and exhaled before Doyle offers a wan smile back to the artist and the young woman, "I'm, well, was a sort of artist once. Well. A performer. Anyway."

"Nice, Think that will help" The cracked windows that is. The handshake lingers, just a fraction longer than it really should before the black haired woman pulls away and offers her hand to Doyle. "Pleasure to meet you Jason. Performer huh? What did you do? Juggling? Acting?" Technopath. The other woman is a technopath. That brings a smile to Wendy's face as she counts in her head. Five now that she's met. Awesome, great, fabulous. Her little running mental game of a scavenger hunt is added to. Three more and she'll buy herself a new car.

Alia remains quiet as she looks at the painting. "It's… dark. But nice." She seems to struggle with the words, then finally turns her attention to the pair talking, tilting her head a little.

"I was a puppeteer." Doyle's voice is quiet, wistful as he stares at the painting for a moment; tearing himself free of whatever reverie he'd been in, he smirks just a little, a self-depreciating twist of his lips up at one corner, "Had my own theatre and everything. That was— that was a long time ago." The smirk has faded, and he draws a breath in, exhaling it in a slow spill that causes his shoulders to droop. He stares at the hand for a three count before realizing what it's for, and then steps closer, reaching out to take the hand offered, clasping it briefly in a perfunctory pump, "Good, uh, to meet you. Both, both of you."

"Lost them in the…" There's a gesture to the painting. "A lot of people lost their jobs and such." Wendy releases his hand with a puzzled look the moment his connected with hers. New one. Never felt that before. She has no words to attach to the sensation other than some pull. Alia was static almost, physical static, but Doyle was a pulling sort. "Yeah, it has a beauty in it's own. I don't dare sell it, lest someone complain about making money off the misfortunes of others" Her hand pulled away, Wendy picks up a thin thin brush and dips it in some water so she can put said cracks in the windows that Alia pointed out.

"So, Jason, Alia, what do you both do now? Obviously, I paint and do artistic type things"

Alia sighs a bit at the wordiness of the question, pondering long moments on how to give an answer. Then she smiles and digs into a pocket, pulling out a small business card, the cheap kind one could print themselves. The name on it reads "Alia Chavez", and states 'Computer Repairs and Data Recovery" as her line of business. in a washed out almost-watermark kind of way is a very detailed drawing of a motherboard in green and silver behind the black text. The phone number listed is a cell phone number. "Brooklyn Library" Is all she says out loud as she offers the card to Wendy.

"It burned." It's neither confirmation nor denial, but it could be easily misinterpreted as the former. 'Jason' glances away from the painting, scanning the park with just a hint of anxiousness drawing lines at the corners of his eyes. What does he do now? I run. And hide. "Not… much, anymore. I guess you could say I'm between jobs." A rueful note threads through his voice as he looks back, craning his neck a little to check out the card, up on the tips of his toes, "Computer stuff, huh?"

"Eeeeveryone needs computer stuff fixed. I don't know how many times I'm cursing cause something's gotten onto my computer and I'm having to wipe. I just thank fucking god that I'm not some digital artist who relies on her computer ya know" Another brush here, there, twist it and … done. Wendy stands back, looking at the impression of the Ruins she's painted, picking up a rag to give her hands a good wipe. "Brooklyn huh. Bet you're really good at computers"

Alia nods. By now one might have gotten the hint she just doesn't talk much, for whatever reason. However, the smile shows she appreciates the curiosity, the fact that someone cares. She looks to 'Jason' sympathetically. "Much lost." She sighs and looks to the skyline.

"Yeah. A lot lost…" Doyle trails off for a moment as he looks out over the park, then back to the pair with a wry half-smile, managing to chuckle, "No point in cryin' over spilled milk, though, huh? Always gotta push on, stay the course, find your way. At least, I mean, that's what all those guys say. Right?"

"Inspirational words Jason! Good for you! I like that in a person. When life hands you lemons, screw the lemonade, make a lemon meringue and eat it all. Much more satisfying, not as much sour pucker to it" Wendy nods a little, head up and down three times before she looks to the painting. "Dunno what to do with this"

Alia shrugs a bit. "Can't go back." She says as she looks at the painting thoughtfully.

There was another Eric Doyle that would argue that; that would observe that it was quite possible to do just that. Dead, though, a time line looped in upon itself and severed neatly in blood and pain. The one that remains merely smiles wanly, "Guess so. Mm. Now I'm hungry." A hand pats against his pudgy midriff, "Wonder if that hot-dog vendor's still around here somewhere."

"Oh, I think.." Wendy points with a paint brush. "Right over there. Where the balloons are. The atmoki…." Oops lets not give away that secret. "Where the kids are flocking. You know, you should set up in the park, I bet you'll get quite a few people who would show up for a puppet show" There's a glance to Alia. "want it?" The painting she means.

Alia thinks about it, then shakes her head. "Thank you."

"Probably." There's something rather rueful about Doyle's admission, his head shaking just a little, "Probably too many." He brings a hand up to rub against his face for a moment, eyes closing behind the splay of thick fingers as a sigh stirs to his palm, "Maybe eventually."

You paged Hadley with 'feel free to come play. we're in the park random, within view of the ruins. Wendy's finished a painting of the ruins and eric and alia are standing with her and talking.'

"maybe baby, I'll have you. Maybe baby you'll be true, maybe baby I'll have you for me" Wendy sing songs, affixing her signature to the painting with a paint pen on the bottom dry corner after Alia refuses it. the late afternoon sun is still up there, peeking through the clouds now and then, Doyle and Alia facing the easel with the artists interruption of the ruined skyline. She croons the song to Doyle, buddy holly FTW.

The cackle and cry of pigeons marks Mrs. Hadley's course through the park. They're following her, probably because of the now-empty paper bag she has in one hand. Awww, old ladies feeding birds. Less cute: she has to wave them away once in a while because they just aren't leaving her alone. A course has been set for the exit, though this means she'll pass right by the trio at the easel.

Alia pauses as she sees the incoming disaster… oil paints, pigeons… she sighs and motions to get the attention of the other two towards the incoming flock.

"That's a lot of maybes," Doyle says quietly, letting his hand fall back down to his side to hand there loosely, his gaze falling on the portrait of destruction scribed 'cross the canvas. "There was a lot've things that were— were supposed to happen. They never did." He heaves another sigh, then looks up to the sky and smiles faintly, "I'm still breathing, though. Anyway. You don't want— " At the wave, he turns a little, gaze sliding over to the old woman and her pigeons.


Goes the lid to her paints, the wooden case closing as she sees them coming. Another evolved, she thinks it's the woman. It's certainly not the birds. Good god they were flocking to the park today. The painting carefully offered to Doyle. "If you want it, if not, I'll probably park it on a bench somewhere for someone to take home. I do that" There's that internal evo compass. Evo-dar as the one called it. "Hellooooooo there!" Here she goes again, waving people over.

The purse Mrs. Hadley has over one shoulder is a big thing, the kind of purse you could stick the entire kitchen sink in. Finally, finally she thinks to tuck the paper bag away out of sight: Pavlov reaction averted, the pigeons start drifting away in search of actual food. Not all of them, but at least some. The wave over is enough to get her attention: she changes course just enough to head that away instead, brows arching. "Hello, dear?" It's the faintly curious tone of someone who maybe thinks she's forgotten a face and name (again).

Alia sighs softly as she shifts the backpack on her back some. The girl isn't much for words it seems, even as she finally relaxes as the flock dissipates, mostly. She tilts her head as someone as is drawn in the same way she was.

"Hi." Eric's greeting is short, quick, and he turns his head to look over in the direction of the balloons a bit longingly; that is, after all, where the hot dog vendor was pointed out. He digs in his pockets for a moment, then comes up with a wallet, flipping through it as if he wasn't sure of the contents. He isn't, of course. He took these pants from somebody else.

Out comes that hand again, offered in a friendly manner. "Hi, i'm wendy. This is Jason, and that is Alia!" Take the hand old lady, take the hand. Wendy wants to see what you can do. "Though I think jason is about to go fix that hankering he has for a hot dog" She gives him an out. "What brings you to the park today ma'am?"

It's only polite: Mrs. Hadley reaches out to take the offered hand and gives it a shake. "Do we know each other, dear?" Her tone twists wry, with a bit of self-deprecation tossed in as well. "If we have, you'll have to forgive me, I'm entirely at a loss. And hello, Jason and Alia!" she adds to the two, and offers them a shake too, gentleman first. Attention flits back to Wendy to answer with a grimace, "A picnic dinner in the sunshine turned into feeding the pigeons, which I truly shouldn't have done, I know, but I had a bit of bread left over." The spill of words is a relaxed thing: chatter-box, check.

Doyle takes a moment to realize the hand's being offered to him— which he does with a slight jerk, smiling a fake little smile as he reaches out to clasp her hand briefly, the wallet snapped closed in his other hand, "Ma'am. Ah. Hi."

Healing. She likes the sensation that comes with Mrs. Hadley's ability. Everything is different. She's ran across so few healers that it's still a new exciting feeling for her. Wendy grins and lets go of Mrs. Hadley's hand. "Nope, I just like to be eccentric and greet random people in the park. I just finished a painting and trying to find a home for it. Would have been easier I'm sure if I hadn't painted the ruins huh?"

"Well!" Mrs. Hadley brings her hand up to her chest, pressing lightly there for a moment; relief is audible. "Thank goodness I'm not going senile that quickly after all!" The shake for 'Jason' is proof of just how fragile she is: her hand is mostly bone and thin skin. "It's Mrs. Hadley, dear," she adds for his sake. "Don't you worry about the ma'am, that's too formal for a lovely evening in the park." Introductions complete, she leans over a little to peer at the painting in question. "It is rather desolate, dear," she notes upwards to Wendy, tone absent and distracted. "You might do better finding someone outside of the city to take it, or a tourist?"

Alia chuckles softly at the suggestion… it's a good one, though, earning a nod of approval as she grins at the chattering lady a bit, though there is something very indfferent from a grin in her eyes.

"Well— ah— it was, um, good meeting you, but, you know." A nervous half-smile, as Doyle ducks his head a bit and turns, "Things to do, hot dogs to eat, heh— heh…" The smile fades, as he starts to saunter off, rather abruptly. But then, he doesn't seem very good at 'socializing'.

'Take care Jason! Bring your puppets next time" Hollered to him when he's far enough away that hollering is necessary with two hands cupped around her mouth to direct her voice. "I think you're right miss" This to Mrs. Hadley since she didn't want to be called Ma'am. "Think I'll leave it out, on a bench. Someone will give it a good home. If it's still here tomorrow, well then maybe I'll just paint over it. You have a tailgater" There's a gesture to a pigeon that's vainly hanging on, hoeing against hope that there might be a crumb or two.

Alia remains mostly quiet, even as she listens to the two. She seems very amused however by the remaining pigeon or two. Even as one lands on her hat, and coos loudly.

The old woman repeats absently, "Mrs. Hadley, dear. I haven't been a miss in nearly sixty years, though it's sweet of you to say so." She straightens up and gives a nod to the painting. "I've thought about finding local artists to put work up in my bakery, but I just don't know that the park ruins would be a particularly good choice," she goes on to note with a huff of breath. "They just don't really say 'stop and look at me while you eat a muffin', do they?" At the warning re: pigeon companionship, she glances up and waves a hand ineffectually at the bird. "Go on now, go on!"

Darn pigeons! If only they knew English? "Oh! You have a bakery?" Wendy looks over to Alia. "She has a bakery. That's delightful! Where? I like to support local business's, small businesses when I can. Buy American and all that. Not that big businesses aren't good, but, you know, mom and pop stores deserve to thrive as well too. Maybe I'll make you something for your shop!"

Alia smiles a bit even as she shoos her own pigeon off with a tilting of her hat. "Muffins?" She asks out of curiosity.

"I do," Mrs. Hadley agrees cheerfully. "Down on the East Side," and she rattles off the street name. "I certainly appreciate the thought dear, but since I'm the owner, I'm maybe a little bit biased thinking my product is so much better than anything you'd find at a grocery store." Unapologetically biased at that, amusement quite clear. "You go right ahead and paint me something that isn't ruins, and I'll see if I can find a spot for it," she agrees easily. "Maybe I'll make an exhibit out of it, something that changes to keep interest going."

"Mrs. Hadley, there's quite a few artists I know who'd love for a chance to but a picture on the wall of a place that won't charge then a hundred bucks to do it. I'll spread the word to the good ones I know though huh? You don't want the bad ones coming in and asking for a spot. Can even put a small price tag ont he side for people to buy them if they want" Something bright and cheery. She looks over to Alia and then to her supplies. "I should start putting stuff away"

Alia nods a little, shrugging, as she sets down her skateboard, and offers a polite wave before pushing off and out of the park.

A wave is given to Alia's departing back, "Have a good evening, dear!" Mrs. Hadley turns her attention to the various supplies and offers, "Would you like a hand, dear? It's going to get dark soon, we probably shouldn't be out here too long after the sun goes down. You hear about all sorts of terrible people wandering around the Park at night, after all."

'Sure! Always happy to take a lending hand. Everything fits away into the two cases here. lemme wash the brushes you can puts the oils away?" She grabs her bottle of water and leans over a collapsible bowl so she can wet the brushes and wrap them in some oilcloth. That will keep them wet enough till she gets back to her place. "Hey, Mrs. Hadley. How long have you been a healer?"

The question has her blinking a little, startled. But either Mrs. Hadley just takes things in stride, or people knowing such a thing is common for her: she answers easily enough. "Since a bit after the bomb, dear. You know, you're the second person to ask me such a thing. Does it matter?" She tucks everything away as carefully as she can, though obviously she doesn't have a clue how to pack it all as neatly as it ought to be.

"Nope, not a lick. Call it curiosity. Do you like, heal heal like touch and wish, it's all gone or do you like, get a cut and you just automatically start to heal" There's a thought that crosses her face. "Or are you like this one that I knew, who could like, triple your healing time, so like, stab would. Gone. four, five days. Was amazing" Wendy blabbers on with an approving nod now and then to how the older woman is putting stuff away

No small amusement colors Mrs. Hadley's voice when she notes, "That's rather a lot of questions for someone I just met, dear." She doesn't sound upset at all, mind. Just amused. "It takes more than a moment, but less than it ought, and I've never particularly given much thought to the mechanics of it. I don't have much of a mind for science, too many recipes crowding anything else out of the way." Up she straightens once the jars are tucked properly, looking quite pleased with herself. "But it only works on other people with gifts, so do try to keep it to yourself if you can, hmm? I don't want to have to turn someone desperate away because I can't help, no matter how much I wish otherwise."

There's a wave of her hand, dismissing it. "Don't worry. I'll keep it to myself. I don't' know how it works, I couldn't tell you, I only knew you could heal. That girl who was here? She's a technopath. I always get like, static, or like snow, off a TV, feels like that. The hot dog vendor over there? I got a hot dog from him earlier, he can control the climate. He gives me like this … feeling of rain in the bones. Met a few of those. The guy who was here though" She shakes her head, brushes put away, one hand going to her hip and watching Doyle in the distance. "He does something, but I don't know what it is for the life of me"

The old woman clicks her tongue lightly against the roof of her mouth, a faintly chiding sound. "Now, that's just not polite at all, dear." Mrs. Hadley hoists her bag up over her shoulder to keep it secure. "Sharing that sort of news with anyone without permission, that is. Everyone's entitled to their privacy, and here you are just sharing it all over the place." Her gaze on the younger woman is direct when she says so.

Outwardly, Wendy looks the epitome of contrite. Duly chastised and accepting the verbal hand slap. Sorry Mrs. Hadley, yes Mrs. Hadley. Inwardly there's a flippant whatever on her inner tongue. The two cases seem to be fulled as they're going to be and she closes them proper, securing one above the other and breaks down the easel. "Am I still welcome to make a painting for your bakery?"

Her steady regard is contemplative. Mrs. Hadley takes her time to think about that question before she finally nods. "You may. I'll only ask that you keep yourself circumspect while you're in my shop. I like it to be a quiet place where a body can come enjoy something sweet without worrying about whether they're going to be bothered because of what God made them." A brow arches. "Can you agree to that much?"

"I don't bring trouble with me. I'm just an artist. Worst I'll bring is a bad artistic mood. I promise I'll be on my most impeccable behavior. Behavior my mother would be proud about" She promises as she stacks stuff on top of the wheeling case and securing it all with straps that tighten down. Satisfied that all is good and wiping her hands on her skinny torn jeans she smiles at something. "That pigeon is still there."

"Then by all means, you come on by and take a look at the space to figure out what you can paint." Permission given, Mrs. Hadley spins a bit to peer at the bird. "Ohfor!" She laughs a little under her breath, then leans over to give Wendy's shoulder a light patpatpat. "You be careful heading home, dear. I'm going to see if I can't escape this pigeon before he latches on and never leaves."

"Bet he'll follow you all the way home. Take care Mrs Hadley of the healing hands and hearty muffins" And with that, and a shooing motions with her foot towards the pigeon, Wendy starts to tromp off, all gangly limbs and black clothing to make her way to a taxi and home. Little though for the baker beyond a fleeting moment and then poof. Distracted by others.

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