Life's A Bitch


brian_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Life's A Bitch
Synopsis …And then you die. Because you were shot by some crazy guy over a tugboat. Then, if you're Brian, you die three or four more times for good measure. This conversation probably actually happened, in the event that there might have been some (reasonable) doubt.
Date February 14, 2009

The Lighthouse Basement

Click— "See, it's broken. Fix it." Brian mutters, slapping the gun down on the table. The basement is very much so the dark underbelly of the Lighthouse. The door was kept under several different locks, and it took a bit of a time before Brian could get the door open. This is where Brian keeps his toys. Guns. Everywhere. Most of which came from Deckard. Some of which from Kain Zarek, and others taken from dead bodies.

Tools, tables, and cleaning supplies, the basement is dimly lit. Not that Deckard would ever have a problem with that. The young man is fiddling with his 'jammed' glock, sitting on top of a table. Deckard standing just over him.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"I'll take it back to my place and mess with it there." There are a lot of guns down here. Big guns, small guns, long guns, hand guns. The reflective sheen of Deckard's sunglasses bounces their warped images back out at them — some more familiar than others. "I'd offer a replacement to hold you over in the meanwhile, but." It looks like he's pretty well set. "Don't — don't do that. Jesus. Here." The rough of his hand reaches to relieve Brian of the weapon before he manages to do something improbable with it. Or pinch his fingers.

There's no immediate answer for the question of what he wanted to talk about. He frowns down at the gun, turns it over once, then tucks it a little carelessly down into the pocket of his overcoat, still chilly from the wind outside. "How've things been with you?"

Feelings, bwuh? Brian shoots Deckard a look that is absolutely bewildered. His jaw even goes slack a little bit. He looks confused. "I — what?" He asks, peering closely at the older man. Trying to get over his shock and confusion, the replicator takes a couple to answer. "WellI meangood." He answers, the stock answer. Then he shakes his head. "No. Not good. Shitty. Really shitty. I died. Twice. Abby's gone. Helena and Al are still gone." He gives a hefty shrug of his shoulders. "I keep doing stupid things which drives me into a down ward cycle of utterly hating myse — How are you?"

Deckard has timed a look up through the ceiling ideally, not entirely unaware of the paradoxical weirdness involved in those words coming out of his mouth. He misses the bewildered look, but the stammering that follows is enough to insinuate its presence anyway. His brows twitch towards each other at Brian's scrutiny, then lift when he tips his scruffy chin down to better look at the floor. Resigned to awkwardness, maybe.


Frowning that Deckard snatched away his gun, Brian leans back, putting his hands out on the table supporting his weight. His brows narrow for a moment, before he gives a sigh. "You want to sit down man?" There seems to be serious business, and Brian isn't the type to make fun of a guy who obviously is having issues. Well he is, but not right now. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing as bad as dying. Twice." In retrospect. Only one brow still hiked up under the lines etched into his forehead, Deckard scratches uneasily at the side of his jaw, scrape scrape scrape, and becomes very interested in a familiar-looking shotgun somewhere off to the side. Maybe the one they were stealing when Brian shot Miles in the knee like a douchenozzle.

The turn of his head highlights the bruising that's still black and blue across the side of his face from his go around with Charlie. Life on Staten Island has a tendency to be painful. Well. Life in general has a tendency to be painful, when you're Flint Deckard. "I shot a guy."

The impulse is to say 'Me too. Like five.' But Brian resists, his lips being dragged down into a sympathetic frown. "We all did things we wouldn't have done normally, Flint. I would like to think the end was worth the means. It doesn't make you an evil person, Flint…" The young man says, his face now etched with sympathy and concern, he goes to pat the table near him. "Sit down." He suggests.

A lot of people shot…a lot of people. People were exploded, drowned. Had buildings fall on them. But most of them were evil dickheads, or knew what they were getting themselves into. Deckard tips his head in hazy acknowledgement of these facts, which are true. Ends justified the means, and everything. He doesn't take a seat, either disinclined to get that close, or too distracted to register the invitation despite the fact that he looks right at it.

"He wasn't one of the bad guys. Just…some tugboat captain. James Stutzman. I was supposed to be him."

That makes sense to be upset about. A tugboat captain. Somewhere in the world a cute little tugboat has no one to toot that little horn. All because— "Why?" Brian asks, tilting his head up to the older man. "I'm sure you had a reason." This is more to himself than Deckard. He had to have a reason, or was Deckard one of those serial tugboat killers that you hear about on the news.

You think you know a person.

"Edward's plan. He said I needed to get captured on purpose, as Stutzman. He didn't tell me the real one would be there." This is uncomfortable. There's no better word for it. Deckard's gaze drops down from the table again, halfway down one of the legs, where there's really nothing all that interesting to look at. "I didn't have the cash to bribe him. He had a gun of his own, so I couldn't risk an explanation going south either. Even if he believed me, he might have called the cops. There wasn't a lot of time." It sounds like a list of excuses, even to his ears. Annoyed at himself, he sucks in a quick breath and sets his jaw before forcing it out through his teeth. Whiskey stink trails out with it, par for the course.

"I shot him twice, but missed the heart. He was still alive when I threw him into a dumpster."

Edward. That guy has caused a lot of pain around here. Then he just got up and ran away. No one's heard from him. Brian stares up at Deckard. This is awkward. How do you console that? A soft sigh escapes his lips. His mouth starts to open, and then closes around the words he was going to form. His eyes screw up for a moment. What do you do?

"Want me to pray for you?" He asks, almost in a whisper.

"No." It's not a blunt no. Just a no, no. Maybe a no that doesn't think it would make much difference even if he took the time.

There are more details. Edward immediately turning around and handing him over on a silver platter, hallucinations, cleaning up the mess afterwards. The murder was the main thing. The space that could be filled with elaboration is filled with stale silence instead, eventually ended by a sift of wool coat over suit when Deckard takes the two steps necessary to sink down into a seat on the other end of the table. "What happens, when you die?"

"I will. Anyway." He offers in return, leaning back up he folds his arms across his chest, sure to keep his eyes averted from the taller man. "Nothing happens. Well a lot. But nothing. I don't think I qualify for Heaven or Hell. Since my soul, is still here. There's a lot of pain. A lot of pain. But.. the connection.. I donno. It ends, in kind of a fiery crash sort of way. Instead of thoughts and emotions, I just feel.." He waves his hand dismissively. "Wreckage."

No argument. No thanks, either. Deckard is listening, but his eyes remain as averted as Brian's; back to the guns again. He should really get him some cases to put them in. Or something. So they aren't all just lying around. "Sounds like it sucks."

Not exactly profound, but. It does, so. The flat line of his mouth turned increasingly down into a frown, Flint sits still in a dead kind of way. Unusual for him. No fidgeting or itching. No twitches. "I have another guy looking for the van. And some guy with a dumbass accent and a pair of six shooters was asking your girlfriend about her sunglasses in the park."

"She told me." Brian murmurs. "Think it's worth giving him a visit? She told me what happened. Either he was a complete asshole, or he knows something he shouldn't. What do you think? Oh— I told her your real name, by the way. She can be trusted. I told her if she's in trouble and I'm.. I donno.. Gone. To come to you. Hope you don't mind." He looks up to Deckard's eyes before looking away again.

"It does suck. But what you gonna do?" He asks with a little shrug. "What kind of accent? And who do you have looking for the van? Think we should start asking questions here on the island?" Being Staten Island. "I've been looking for Sergei too here. The dumb cop negator. I know someone who works in the shady clinic in the rookery, so far, nothing's turned up on him."

"Dunno. Cowboy. Might be best not to call his attention back to her. Probably wouldn't hurt to ask around, though. See if you can find out a name." Deckard doesn't sound all that enthusiastic about the prospect himself, but he doesn't look like he has energy to spare on enthusiasm anyway. Unhappy, tired. All the usual crap.

He sighs, shoulders slouching free of some of their stored stiffness when his sunglasses tip still further down after the toe of one boot. "It's…fine. Does she have my number?" A hard blink follows the question, and for the first time in a while, he looks over for long enough to make sure Brian is still there and hasn't turned invisible or anything else weird like that.

"A disembodied voice." Is looking for the van. His mouth falls open to explain, only to show teeth in the place of explanation. Long story, clearly. "I don't know any Sergeis."

"I'll have her memorize it. Like I said, she has vision like you. Think you can try to teach her to use it properly? Right now it just gives her pain. Headaches and stuff makes her sick." He waves a hand dismissively. "It's probably nothing. I told her to call me if she sees him again.. But. Hah. She can't see." He gives a little grin despite the sad mood.

Brian is still there. "A disembodied voice?" His brow screws up as he looks over to Deckard. His face overcoming with sympathy again. "I—…Are you okay man? If you need a place to crash for a couple nights." He gestures vaguely to the establishment above. "I can't guarantee the kids won't stab you with little forks. But.. All their voices have bodies." And if you shoot this one kid he won't even die. That should be good for Deckard. Brian fails to mention that, now.

"I still get headaches." Ever a sparkling bundle of good news and optimism, Deckard's voice croaks along without tremendous feeling, glowing eyes still safely masked behind his glasses. "I don't know. I can try. It's just…seeing. Like walking, or taking a piss. You don't have to think it out once you find the trigger." That…doesn't make very much sense. His speech is a little halting accordingly, and even moreso at Brian's reaction to news of a disembodied voice. Fuck.

What does it say about him that it didn't even cross his mind that hearing disembodied voices might insinuate insanity? "I'm — fine. I don't need — I don't think I made it up." But he's not positive he didn't, according to his word choice. Aware of that as much as anything else, he finally pushes a hand up over his face, partway under his glasses. There's no light. His eyes are closed.

"I should get back."

February 14th: Blind Person Awareness
February 14th: Apologies Had
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