Participants:
| Scene Title | Migration |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Kent heads south for the winter. |
| Date | January 23, 2009 |
Though it is situated on a busy portion of Broome Street, the Guan Gong Temple is a place of incomparable peace and serenity. It has been well kept through the years, and there are several exquisite works of Chinese art housed within. Stairs on either side of the common room lead up to a lofted dining area that's set for roughly a dozen. Carved woodwork and lovingly tended plant life makes up much of the decor here, as well as in the modest kitchen and living quarters.
It's cold. Sleet falls. But the sun is starting to break through the cloud, making the downfall of rain-snow thinner, prying fingers of yellow pushing aside darker clouds. It's only going to get nicer from here on in, the middle of a blizzardy winter finally over and done with, and Kent almost regrets not having done this before it was freezing cold, and before he had done stupid things. Oh, well. It's not as though New York in famous for it's lovely weather, no matter what time of year it is.
Kent is seated on a stone bench in the courtyard of the Guan Gong Temple, the chilly atmosphere keeping other tourists at bay. He's dressed warmly, but with determination too, as if he were set to go somewhere rather than simply meet up for lunch. His knee bounces up and down in a slightly nervous, fidgety gesture as he waits, and at his feet, a backpack about as full as it could get is propped against the bench legs. In his gloved hands, a notebook is clasped, shut with a black, nondescript cover.
Wrapped in a warm coat and scarf, Gillian makes her way into the Temple grounds, looking for the bench that they sat on together and shared a conversation that she still remembers fairly well. It was before her life span out of her control, and she had to grasp onto the only things that she thought she could. Her hair is paler than it'd been that day in the middle of fall. Reddish tinged locks slip out of cracks in her scarf. The scarf isn't quite enough to guard her from the wind, but it does it's part. Her nose is red by the time she approaches the man on the bench, gloved hands shoved into her coat pockets. "Kent," she says once she's close enough, noting the full backpack near his feet.
As soon as she comes into sight, Kent gets to his feet, as is polite. His own scarf, bright red and woolen, is wrapped tight about his throat and tucked into coat, a splash of colour in the midst of earthy browns and greys. "Hey," he says, then freezes up a little. It's not as though his presence and props aren't communicating everything they need to, but he's still unsure of what to say for about five seconds. His hands fidget a little with the ring-bound notebook a little as he starts with, "How're you?"
"Still kicking," Gillian says, shifting her eyes away from him for a moment to glance around once. "Still free— so I'm guessing that's a check in the win column at least." Considering the fuck up that they did and all. Reaching up, she pushes her bangs away from her forehead, pulling the scarf down in an attempt to block a little more of the cool air. Everything about her clothes leans in one specific direction. Black. "From the bag I'm guessing this isn't 'finally meeting up for that drink I owe you'."
A slight wince pulls at Kent's features, paler in the cold and making what pale dusting of freckles there are stand out all the more. Unfinished business, as always. "No, you're right," he says. "I'm sorry. Not today, anyway. But I'm gonna take off, I think. New York's not the answer for me. At least not right now."
"It's fine," Gillian says, shaking her head a little as she glances up at the sky— the clouds that threaten to drop even more freezing slush onto the city that she lived in her whole life. "It wasn't too long ago I was ready to do the same. Toss everything into a bag and take off to anywhere but here. Especially can't blame you after the recent fuck up." Epic fuck up, at that. But there's still a hint of a twinge at her mouth, a tightening. He is, after all, one of the ones who talked her into staying instead of turning tail and taking off into the night. She shifts around, pulling one of her gloves off so she can fetch her wallet, pulling out some money, which she offers forward. "For that drink I owe you."
The money is glanced at, and after a moment, sheer practicality moves him to take the bank notes. All things considered, he'll need every little bit of it, and the money is disappeared into a pocket. "You have a life here," Kent says, with a quirk of a smile. "I don't really have one anywhere. But I want to come back, are you— going to be stay in New York City? At all?" There's hope in his voice as he asks this, head tilting a little as he studies her from behind his glasses.
The money handed over certainly was much more than for a drink. Taxi fees, perhaps. Not going to keep him affloat for very long, but maybe a hotel room for a night or two. A cheap one. Gillian laughs a little at the mention of her 'life'. "I wouldn't say it's much of one these days. But… I've been able to do a couple interesting things the last month." Too much that she can't exactly talk about— not with him. Not and risk giving away one of the locations of the people who she's dealing with right now. "I'll be here. Might not be easy to find, I keep moving around, but… I'll be here. Somewhere."
"That works." That's when the notebook is offered in return. It's nothing special - sizeable, and a little heavy, dense with pages, but otherwise discreet, and gives no indication as to what's inside. "Hold on to this for me?" Kent asks, eyebrows raising a little. "So I can… kind of come back and get it sometime. It's— nothing that special, I don't care if you look in it or forget it in a drawer or whatever you want, but." He gestures a little with the item, an urging one, arm outstretched.
The notebook earns raised eyebrows— eyebrows that vanish under her bangs that fell back in the way, but Gillian reaches out to take it with her still gloved hand, turning it over once or twice. "Yeah— I can hold onto it." As long as she doesn't get arrested, that is. But she'll be hoping that never happens. If she's given permission to hold onto it, and look at it, she's going to assume it isn't blank… and curiousity gets the better of her. She opens it up and looks to see whether there's prose or sketches in it, or— if it really is all blank. "Any idea where you're going, Taxi?" Better than Ditcher.
Upon opening it, which makes Kent glance between the book and her face a little nervously though no protest comes, the cramped handwriting of Kent's comes into view. It fills the pages, fluctuating between neatness and not, and though there are dates written in the top corners, it's certainly not a journal. Dialogue, prose, maybe some poetry here and there, and the dates stretch right back to late 2006. There's still a sliver of blank pages left towards the end of the book, the very last page filled with idle, unskilled doodles of the uninspired. "Somewhere warm, maybe," Kent says, now bending to reach for his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. "I just wanted to thank you. For being a friend." A shrug, dismissing the sentiment. "And— say hi to Eve for me, too. Even if she's maybe crazy."
The prose is glanced over, a journal of sorts with sketches too? Gillian lets it close, because she's not about to read it here. Instead she opens up her coat and drops it into the large interior pockets. Right where she would be carrying her unregistered and stolen glock should she have been going into a more dangerous location. This Temple doesn't strike her as needed that extra protection. Instead she has a pocket fog horn in there. "Well, I hear Antartica isn't so nice this time of year, so skip that place. Maybe try Brazil, or something— or Mexico— or one of those English speaking countries on the other side of the planet." Though she has to imagine they would be a little far. "I'll say hi to her— and bye for you too. Maybe she can give me a head's up with one of her crazy ass dreams if you're making your way back."
"Hey, I know a little Spanish," Kent says, lightly, with a brighter smile. "Maybe I should brush up - throw myself southwards and see what happens. Swim or drown. I think I won't venture across the pond or anything, makes it too hard to get back. It's not like there are people like you just walking around anywhere." His smile turns a little rueful. "I really did want to see you one last time— you know I have a habit of just. Leaving. I didn't wanna do that this time. But I could kinda use the help, if you— were okay with that."
"Of course," Gillian says, rolling her eyes back to the sky. It's not the most flattering to be called on your your ability— but then again. "Fair enough. I called on you for your abilities more than once. Credit." He's got some, it would seem. Even if she's… "Thanks for at least saying something before you go." She'll give him that much, as she reaches out with her gloveless hand, as if to take his. Then she hesitates. "Wait, can you— do what you do— without taking me with you? If we touch, I mean?" All the other times, he took her with him… "Or do I have to try to amp you up without touching you? I can— but it'd probably be best with touch either way. And while I fucking love to go down south right now— I have prior appointments to make."
Kent's tuned out a little from around her eyeroll at his request, gaze dropping from her's for a moment and listening to her talk about the mechanics of her ability. He would say that yes, even with touch, he can go on his own, but instead, he offers her a smile. It's a little strained, but warm. "Never mind," he says, smoothly. "Take care, Gillian." And without pre-empt, without waiting for an amp of ability of any kind, he vanishes from sight. Somewhere behind her, he reappears near the entrance of the courtyward, but as quickly as it takes for him to peer across the street, he disappears once more.
"What?" Gillian says, blinking as he suddenly just vanishes from in front of her. The knot in the back of her head wasn't even unravelled yet, but it is as soon as she realizes he's already gone. She glances around to try and find where he went, but doesn't happen to be looking in the right direction. "Son of a…" There's nothing that she can do about that now. "Goodbye, Kent," she says softly, to no one at all, before she fully closes up her coat and stuffs her gloveless hand back inside the glove, before she starts a much longer walk back to her newer apartment.
 January 23rd: Good Dogs |
 January 23rd: Prelude To Armageddon Part IV |