Participants:
| Scene Title | Just A Little Paranoid Are We? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Wendy tries to perk up Doyle in the park but ends up sparking his paranoia. She makes up for it by telling him the name of a healer. |
| Date | August 3, 2009 |
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.
The summer's death is slow but inevitable, so here in the park in the bright noon-day sun those who fear the return of the educational system are doing their best to squeeze every moment of pleasure out of the season. A frisbee hurtles through the air, pursued by a gaggle of teens, while others watch an impromptu musical troupe making its way through the area. Couples walk hand in hand or relax on blankets eating their lunch. In general, it's a bright and happy day.
Eric Doyle, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be enjoying the day. In fact, the portly puppeteer looks a little down in the dumps, his gaze cast downwards and a frown lingering upon his lips as he walks along one of the paved foot-paths of the park, hands tucked into his pockets. In no hurry, he merely trasverses the route he's taking without much care where he's going, clearly lost in uncomfortable thought.
"I haven't seen you for weeks" The pull coming into her range before she turned her head to see the puppeteer. Wendy was set up, papers, little shelter to keep the sun off her head, easel, all manner of charcoal and pencils for sketches. Some shadows under her own eyes, a big bottle of blue gatorade and a squinty eye'd look when Doyle meanders near. Wendy's had an interesting night and this afternoon is .. well, she needed to do something instead of staring at the ceiling and being amazed with what she experienced.
It takes Doyle a few moments before he realizes that was a familiar voice, and maybe someone's actually talking to him. A lift of his head, and a smile flickers weakly onto the man's lips, one hand raising in a gesture of greeting. He pauses just at the edge of the path, then crosses off onto the grass to approach, "Oh, uh. Hey, uh, how's it going, miss?"
"It goes. Worlds a little more vivid today. Can't say the same for you" Wendy peers up at the robust man as he approaches. "Sit. I'll do your portrait. Free of charge. Maybe that will make you smile?" That and she has an ulterior motive. She thought she'd never see him again. Never know what it is that he does. There's a gesture with red lacquered nails to the folding chair at right angles to her easel.
"My portrait?" On the one hand, he's flattered that she'd offer… on the other, well, he is a wanted man. Having portraits out there may not be entirely safe. Ah, what feds have any artistic taste anyway? That uncertainty's visible in his expression, then he offers her a brief and wry grin, "Oh, sure. Why not? I mean, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?" Doyle hunkers down into the chair, hands on his knees, "So how've you been?"
"Busy. So many clubs to attend. Friends totally manifesting evolved abilities. I have a piece i'm working on that is kinda got my whole" She makes a circular motion to indicated her head. "Attention. You?" Wendy reaches over, motioning for him to turn just so. lift the chin, smile just a fraction.
"Oh? What is it you're working on?" The question deftly dodged, even as at the gesture Doyle adjusts himself; shifting to turn a little, his chin lifting as he manages an honest smile, fingers absently plucking at his pants.
Clay piece, though I'll probably get it cast into bronze after. I'm calling it.. Manifestation" She looks proud about it, and she moves about, languid, at peace as she gets her things in order to start sketching. "Hey, I need to ask you something, though, it might be a bit personal and it tends to freak other people out"
"A painter and a sculptress," Doyle observes with a throaty chuckle, meaty shoulders shaking a bit with the sound, "A talented woman. Hm?" A glance over, a little hesitant, "What is it?"
"I'm just an artist" Wendy grins. "I have an ability. I can tell who's evolved, I can find them, if they come close enough, and if I touch them" Well, Doyle would get the idea. "I can't, for the life of me, Jason, figure out yours. I shake your hand, touch your shoulder" Like she'd done a few moments earlier. "And it's like.. someones pulling strings…"
Oh, if there's anything that could cast cold water onto the slowly warming edges of the puppeteer's mood, it's that.. and he tenses up, shoulders hunching a little as he glances away from her, a furtive motion to look about the park as if worried someone'd just heard that. "I… don't know what you're talking about," he chuckles, a forced sound, flashing a fake smile, "I'm not Evolved."
No ones close enough and Wendy just looks at him and sighs. She leans down, rooting around in a purse before passing over her registration card. Evolved Detection in plain bold letters. "I'm not kidding. See, here's the thing. I never came across yours before. And i'm dying of curiosity"
The card's regarded with a hint of anxiousness, and then Doyle's pushing himself up to his feet; turning a little, a suspicious gaze flickering to the nearby trees and bushes to check for ambushes or observing agents. "Well, you're… wrong," he says, looking back over with a bit colder look, his smile bleeding away entirely like paint washed away by the driven rain, "I'm nobody. Just Jason."
Wendy sighs. "Fine, fine, whatever. Unless your an illusionist" She'll give it up then at least. Frowning slightly now. "I'll still offer to draw your portrait if you want"
"No, I think I should be…" Then, then something makes the puppeteer hesitate. A glance back over his shoulder is shot with a quick movement of his head, and then he looks back to her, taking a step in closer and leaning in slightly with a lower-pitched but urgent voice, "Look, just in case they didn't send you, I'm— look, do you know any healers?" There's a fierce, urgent look in his eyes as he asks the question.
"They didn't send me?" Who the hell is they. But does she know a healer… "Yeah, actually, I do. You uhh, remember that old lady who showed up after feeding the pigeons?" Wendy offers, clearly trying to be nice after she's ruined what little good mood he was getting. "She's a healer. She has a bakery I believe"
Apparently, Wendy's little park friend with the string-pulling is a paranoid schizophrenic. Or else they really are after him, which is always a possibility, if one believes the propaganda and rumours that certain anti-registration sorts put out. "The old lady… yeah, I remember her," Doyle murmurs, one hand lifting to rub under his chin, his brow furrowing a little, "What was her name? I don't think I caught it…"
"uhhh.." Wait a moment. One finger goes up in a motion for him to wait and she digs out a little red notebook. Flip flip flip. There is it. "Hadley. Healing. Mrs. Hadley"
"Thanks." A brief flicker of a smile, before Doyle turns away; turning a dire, suspicious gaze over those frolicking happily in the park, he moves to walk off from the artist and her easel at a quickened pace, without further word to her. Apparently, he's a little bit sensitive about his ability!