keira_icon.gif walsh_icon.gif

Scene Title Killbox
Synopsis The Irishman leads Keira out to Staten Island to discuss his plan to escape his growing problems.
Date January 19, 2011

The Rookery

On Staten Island, the lack of notable infrastructure seems difficult to recognize in the summertime. It's only when winter comes that the island's isolated and largely unoccupied status becomes evident. Snow removal does not happen in the island's north half, save for that done willingly by residents. Two blizzards and one evening of freezing rain and the neighborhood of the Rookery looks like something out of a Thomas Kincaid painting; all snow and icicles and glittering lights, untouched by the hands of man.

The further away from the coast one goes, the more dense the snow gets and the less tended the roads become. Snowblowers have not come in as far out as Keira Fionn is going today, and ice-crusted snow as high as her hips makes for a slow and freezing cold journey from the smuggling port that she entered onto the island from at the Rookery's east coast.

On the corner of Lafayette and Filmore, a dilapidated old building with ice frosted windows shows no signs of recent haibtation. The snow surrounding the building is undisturbed from the storm just a few days ago. Ice sheathes the roof like a glaze, hanging in treacherous icicles from the roof's edge. An old, weathered sign hangs out front of the building, faded lettering that once read Filatov Clinic barely visible now.

One of the windows has been smashed out, long ago, now covered with a black plastic bag, as the other intact windows are as well, sealed with duct-tape to keep in the heat. The only telltale sign that anyone is even here is the thin wisp of smoke trailing out of the crumbling brick chimney up above.

This, of all places, is the last one that Keira had expected to need to come to.

Especially on a night as cold as this one.

God damn it's cold. God damn there's a lot of snow out here. Keira was smart enough to invest in proper winter clothing before veturing out this far— indeed, she has a pair of snow pants over her suit, extra heavy duty boots, and several layers of clothing all over the place. Not to mention the ski mask, hat, and the two scarfs she has wrapped around her face.

Keira does not fuck around with the cold.

It's difficult to move, and all of the layers cause her to strain her muscles just to do basic movements, such as walking. Add to that the resistance of the waist-high snow that's got plenty of ice crusting it, and Keira is going to be sore tomorrow. It's taken her a long while just to get here— she's five minutes late thanks to a slip on some ice on the way. Her ass still smarts, and the cold certainly doesn't help matters in the slightest.

Finally, however, she's made it. Pausing to rest briefly, her gloved hands resting on the ice, she peers up at the building with blue eyes, the only part of her that's actually exposed. With her breath escaping the layers of fabric like whisps of smoke, she presses forward, finally making her way to the door. After dusting herself off from the snow, the woman slips into the building, her right hand in her pocket, clasping the gun she holds there. The layers of warm clothing do well at masking the presence of the vest that she wears, the lovely gift that Walsh gave her for Christmas.

"Hello? Anybody here?" Keira's voice is muffled by the cloth that covers her face.

The press of a gun barrel to Keira's temple isn't quite the hello she was expecting. In her peripheral vision, the ragged countenance of Daniel Walsh looks like a far cry from the man she knew not long ago. He's grown a beard in the time since they last spoke, as faded reddish brown as the rest of his hair. Sleepless circles hang around his eyes, and the tremor in ihs outstretched hand is obvious as he eases the hammer on the revolver back down, slowly lifting the gun barrel away from Keira's head.

"Sorry lass," the Irishman murmurs as he takes a step out from the shadow beside the open door into the mostly vacant lobby of what looks like it may have been a clinic or some other sort of office in the past. "But I could'nae get a good look at you all bundled up like that at a distance. Y'could've been anyone dumb enough t'go pokin' around in the Rookery at night…" A faint smile creeps up on Walsh's lips.

"S'good t'see you, darlin."

The heavily bundled woman freezes as the gun is placed against her temple, her eyes turning to take in the sight of Daniel Walsh. She doesn't seem too scared by the fact that, a pull of the trigger, and she could be dead. The reasoning for that is quickly revealed as he removes the gun, and Keira promptly unfreezes, lifting her gloved hands to remove the layers over her face.

"It's alright. Can't blame you for being jumpy these days. It's really fuckin' cold outside." Once she's got the two scarves, the hat, and the ski mask off, she turns a faint smile to Walsh.

Then— perhaps unexpectedly, even to her…she reaches out to wrap her arms around Walsh's shoulder. Keira is giving Daniel Walsh, the Irishman who would not be past killing someone with a rubber bullet, a hug. After he just pointed a gun at her head, no less. Sure, she's rather bulky right now, layered up in warm clothing as she is, but that's okay. It's not a brief one, either. It's the prolongued hug that one gives to family that they've been worried for.

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Easy," Walsh winces as he's embraces, gently pressing a hand to one of Keira's arms to brush it off of him. "Still a bit sore, took a hit t'my vest when the feds came after me bloody ass." Pale eyes sweep to the door, then back to Keira. "M'sorry about all'f this, but shit's gotten real. The top dog big-wigs y'met at that meetin' had t'cut me loose after it got out what it is that I do. I'm sure y'saw it all over th' fuckin' news…"

Stepping away from Keira, Walsh moves to one of the windows, peeling back a corner of the plastic bag in order to squint out at the street. "Sorry 'bout the accomodations too, s'not much in the way'f good housekeepin' out here." Dried blood on the floor makes for an interesting conversation starter for some, though the red drplets around the broken window look very old, that the blood also stains the shattered glass is an indicator of past violence, or perhaps desperation.

"I need t'ask a huge favor'f you," Walsh quietly explains, turning to look back at Keira, "an' what'm askin' might well put yer pretty little head in a whole lotta' danger too. But yer' the only person I can turn to what ain't wanted by the authorities at the moment, or ain't busy handlin'… other preparation." Preparation for what is left unsaid.

As he presses his hand, Keira relaxes her embrace, stepping away after a moment. Are her eyes glistening just a little? Naaaaah, must be a trick of the light. "Don't apologize— I'm just happy you're alive." She turns her eyes to the ground. "I saw it all on the news, and….what happened? Who ratted y'out?" She frowns at the floor for a moment, before turning her blue gaze back up to Walsh.

Peeling off another few layers, Keira pulls out a fresh pack of cigarettes, taking one for herself, then offering the pack to Walsh. He looks like he could use a smoke or nineteen right now. "I worried about you." She lights up her own smoke, assuming Walsh has no objections to her doing so.

His ask of a huge favor, and what it implies, prompts the woman to raise her eyebrows, the cigarette dangling between her lips as she peers over at Walsh. "Anything— anything for you." She frowns at his state of appearance, at the blood, at everything, before looking back to Walsh. Her chin wrinkles slightly as she looks at him, as if she's suppressing the urge to cry. So much she wants to say, but she's not sure if saying it will do her any good or not.

"If I had t'guess, the fella' I done strapped a bomb to," Walsh admits with a furrow of his brows and a scowl. "He didn't, y'know— explode as planned. Bugger knew me inside n'out, cept for a couple'f things. Therein, of course, lies me problem what I need you t'help me with." Glancing askance at the front door of the former clinic, Walsh finally steps away and holsters his gun inside of his battered wool jacket. Clsing the distance to Keira, Walsh rests one hand on her shoulder.

"Remember tha' air-field I took y'to back when we first started all'a this? The one what Khalid was waitin' for us in, where I stashed all me goods? The ATF's gonna' find that place sooner'r later, an' it means m'gonna lose everything I worked so bloody hard for. I ain't about t'let that happen… an' I need yer help t'make it work."

Sliding his tongue over his lips, Walsh looks towards a partly ajar door to the back of the clinic, then back to Keira. "But first I need t'ask you a question, love. D'you know anybody what works with them Evo terrorist called the Ferrymen?"

Keira frowns. That Nick guy, wasn't it? That guy was a jerk. She glances toward the front door as he does, puffing at her cigarette thoughtfully as she moves to lean against a wall, watching Walsh up until he closes the distance to her, and puts his hand on her shoulder. She straightens a little, peering up at him with wide blue eyes and raised brows.

"Yeah, I remember it. Tell me what t'do, and I'll do it." She tips her head toward him. She's not going to let him lose all of that, either— all of that stuff would be a waste if it got into the ATF's hands.

"Ferrymen?" She raises her brows, turning her eyes up toward the ceiling. Does she know any Ferrymen? "None that have openly said as much t'me. I know a few Evos…but I don't know if they're part of that damn group." If they were, she probably would have tried to kill them already, or turned them in, or something to that effect.

"Well, that changes a few things, but I'll still be needin' yer help." Ambling towards what was once the clinic's reception desk, Walsh retrieves a powered down cell phone off of it, then makes his way back to Keira as he begins booting the phone up. "I've a couple of people I need you t'deliver messages to for me, dangerous types. So you'd best keep your wits about you an' yer tongue in check." Glancing askance to the windows, Walsh offers the phone out to Keira as a chime sounds off of it and a Sprint logo flashes across the touch screen.

"Open up the photos folder in there, an' you'll find some pictures of a pretty young thing with dark hair and big doe eyes. Her name's Eileen Ruskin, an' the stocky feller with the bears and the cave-man brows is Jensen Raith. 'Member those names good, now, 'cause yer gonna' be havin' a little delivery goin' t'them." As he hands off the phone, Walsh holds up his other hand and backons Keira closer with two gloved fingers.

"Lean in a lil' bit," he asks of her, one red brow lifted curiously.

Reaching out, Keira takes the phone with raised brows, peering over the screen as he speaks. Keep her tongue in check? She can do that well enough. She does as told, opening the folder and looking at the pictures of those within. Eileen Ruskin, check. Jensen Raith. Check. She can remember those names well enough. Once that's done, she turns those big blue eyes up to him.

"I can do that." she murmurs, phone still in hand. She does deliveries like this all the time. How hard can an important delivery lke this be? It's not too difficult to watch her tongue, as much as she likes to curse. Something therapeutic about it, really, letting out a taboo word like 'fuck' or 'shit'. It works off a lot of that awful stress that she carries in her shoulders— especially since she drugged her boyfriend in order to break up with him.

As he gestures her closer, her brows raise slightly. She does as requested, leaning closer to Walsh with a look on her face that is equally curious to the one on his. "Yes?"

"M'sorry," Walsh admits before he strikes Keira square in the stomach, then catches her in the cheek with a right hook, sending the unexpecting young woman sprawling to the ground. When she hits the floor of the clinic, Walsh quickly steps in and winds up, delivering a swift kick to her already sore stomach, knocking the wind out of her. He pushes her over onto her back with one foot, then kicks her in the side again, before slamming his foot down on her chest.

The sudden, sound, beating ends just as abruptly as it started as Walsh takes a feww staggering steps away from Keira, wiping at his mouth and exhaling another breathless apology. "M'sorry darlin'— terribly so. But that needed t'look good." Walsh keeps his distance, holding one hand out and showing that he's relenting, even while pain still throbs through Keira on the floor as she is.

Explanations can come after she's recovered.

Keira blinks once or twice at his apology, before she's caught completely unaware by the unexpected onslaught. The first punch knocks the breath right out of her, and as the second punch lands on her cheek, she can only let out a breathy 'oof' noise as she falls onto her hands. Thankfully, the vest that he gave her absorbs some of the blows, but it still hurts like a bitch.

Once the onslaught is finished, she rolls onto her side, coughing and curling in on herself for a moment. Motherfuck that hurts. It's going to leave a mark. What the hell? She trusts him with her life, with the status of a father figure, and he beats the crap out of her?

After a long moment of coughing and recovering her breath, Keira slowly raises to her feet. "What th'fuck was that for!" She reaches a hand up, rubbing at her cheek, while her other hand clutches at her stomach. Ouch. "I hope y'know that even though you're like a fuckin' dad t'me, I'm gonna give you one right th'fuck back for that shit." She scowls up at him.

"If th' both'f us live through the month yer more'n welcome to while we share fruity drinks on a warm, sunny beach somewhere." Crouching down to pick up the phone she dropped, Walsh offers it back to her as he aises back up to stand. "You need t'tell those two people tha' you were workin' for me as an arms runner, an' tha' after this whole Humanis First shit got out, you tried t'make a run for it. I sent some boys after you, an' you came out alive."

Walsh slides his tongue across his cheek and steps away from Keira, looking down to the floor and shaking his hand he'd punched her with, it hurt him too and not just figuratively. "Tell 'em that you know I was plannin' on double-crossing them, luring them into a trap when I go to deliver their goods. Then tell 'em where my warehouse is, the big one in the hangar out in Jamaica Bay." Walsh looks down to the floor, then up to Keira.

"Tell 'em that it's where I keep everythin', an' that all you wanna' do is screw me over an' maybe get me killed. We'll play th' rest by ear. Can y'do tha' fer me, love?" One of Walsh's brows slowly raises, his head tilting to the side as he works his gloved fingers open and closed.

A frown on her face, Keira slowly raises back to her feet, still rubbing at her cheek as she reaches out to take the phone. "Coulda fuckin' warned me." She works her jaw a few times, making sure nothing is loose. She definitely owes him a punch to the face when he's not all feeble and desolate like he is right now. Irishman or not, plan or not, it's not cool to punch a girl unawares.

She pockets the phone, listening quietly to his explanation, nodding slowly. The first part isn't too far from the truth. The rest is easy as pie to pull off. She's pissed off about the black eye she's undoubtably going to have in the morning, and it's easy to be pissed off when she is pissed off about a lot of things these days.

"I can do that." She nods slowly, frowning at Walsh. "Where do I find 'em?" She runs a gloved hand through her hair.

"There's some contact numbers in that phone, don't know which'f 'em it goes to. Just assume one's a man an' the other's a wee little girl," Walsh admits with a pinch of his fingers together to indicate size. "They're expectin' me t'get in touch with them about a shipment, an' if your cover is one of my arms runners, well then it's all puppies an' rainbows for you t'know who they are. There's a file on the phone that has the specifics of the supplies they asked for, and if they wanna' know where their shipment is, well— " Walsh cracks a smile, "all'a more reason for'm t'go check the warehouse."

Shifting his weight to one foot, Walsh considers the door, then steps out and over towards Keira. "I've got t'go see a Chinaman about another part'f this that we're doin' t'morrow. You wait a bit before headed out after, make sure's clear, a'right? There's a lot goin' on, an I need t'know I can trust you with this, darlin'."

Walsh slowly and gently lifts up one gloved hand, lightly cupping Keira's undamaged cheek. "Once you've made contact, leave the phone back here. If they take the phone for whatever reason, leave something I'll know's yours. That'll tell me t'get in touch with you again."

Keira nods slowly, poking the phone in her pocket as if to be sure it's still there, though she know it is. "You can trust me." She's still kinda pissed over the whole getting punched thing, so she's being a little short in the words department, if only because she respects the Irishman far too much to mouth off at him like she really wants to.

Then, she nods slowly. As he cups her cheek, she flinches a bit, turning her eyes down toward the ground with a frown set over her features. "Next time you're gonna do somethin' like that, warn me. I woulda let you do it." Then, she reaches out, her gloved hand squeezing Walsh's shoulder. "You be careful out there. Don't go gettin' caught on me."

"These people," Walsh admits with a furrow of his brows, "know how t'tell the difference between a punch that wasn't expected, and a punch someone tensed up for. These are professional killers, darlin', ones that make me look like an angry lil' boy in his backyard shootin squirrels with a BB gun." Walsh rests his hands on his hips, chin tipping up slowly.

"Eileen, the wee girl? She can control birds, see through their eyes, make whole bloody swarms of 'em attack an' stip the flesh off'a someone. Jensen used t'be CIA, ex-spook and former military. Jensen an' Eileen both 'ave a soft spot for kids. Don't think you can play on an' even field with them an' win. From what I hear…"

Walsh shakes his head slowly, "They used t'be pretty respectable folks, fer what they are. Did a damn good, important job too. But they lost their bloody way, an'now they just know too fuckin' much."

The woman's brows furrow as he explains just what she is going to be dealing with in the very near future— likely while these bruises are fresh, for sure. An Evo, really? One that can make birds rip her flesh off with her mind. That's insane and a little bit nerve wracking, really. She wouldn't stand a chance against a swarm of birds intent on killing her.

Keira nods slowly, a frown on her face. She'll trust his judgement. He knows what he's doing, right? "I'll be careful, then." A small frown, and she pulls the ski mask down to her forehead. Another cigarette is taken out of her pocket, lit up. She'll have a smoke while she waits to make the long, miserable trek home. At least there's a trail blazed, now.

"That's a bit different, then. I'll be careful." Keira's no longer all smiles. She's just…worried. And sore. Ouch.

"Careful's good," Walsh admits as he moves towards the door, urging it open into the lobby as freezing cold wind blows in from outside. "Smart's better. Keep that in mind, an' I'll be in touch. When we get through this," no if's, not right now. "I'll owe you one." Or more, depending on how many more licks Keira has to take while in Walsh's service.

The Irishman makes his exit understated and quiet, slipping out into the dark of night and the whip of winter wind. He has a man to see about a message, and plans to arrange. If everything goes well, by the end of the winter he'll be sitting on a sunny beach in some South American country without extradition laws, sipping a drink of out of a halved coconut.

But he'll take any alternative over New York.

He's had his fill.

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