More Tiny Cranes


barbara_icon.gif cat_icon.gif delia_icon.gif russo_icon.gifsable_icon.gif

Scene Title More Tiny Cranes
Synopsis Various people in New York are finding tiny folded messages waiting for them. Again. Log in progress.
Date October 5, 2010

Gun Hill

Some things take time to get used to. Whether it be flossing regularly, trimming your nails instead of gnawing on them, or figuring out that you don't have to try and charm every woman you meet just to make sure you'll have a roof over your head that night, an old habit dies hard and a new habit forms slowly. Sable would beg to be forgiven for not being able to quite manage the above.

She is still figuring out this whole 'getting mail' thing.

It took her weeks to find the puzzle piece that sat, lonely, in the confines of her mailbox in the lobby of Gun Hill. Her reaction (puzzled, appropriately) led to no real action on her part. She passed the piece on to the building supervisor and figured 'good riddance' - leave this zany mystery game bullshit to people like Magnes, the people who want to live in a comic. And, to make her stance clear, she proceeded to ignore her mailbox entirely after the event.

So it's good thing Hiro Nakamura doesn't rely on the USPS.

Sable returns home on Tuesday to find that someone has been in her room, and not any of the someone's she has given leave to enter freely. No one she knows (as far as she knows) makes origami cranes. And one such crane perches on her pillow, its proud, white little beak pointed down at the tangled ruin of sheets and blankets that forms the landscape of Sable's nightly rest. Does it approve? Disapprove? The folded paper creature gives nothing away. It remains mute, wings pointed upward at the somewhat crooked but carefully placed pinups that festoon the ceiling.

"Aw, hell," is just about what Sable would say and, in fact, does. Pushing off her shoes and kicking them into an empty corner of the room, she makes her way to the bed and plops down on the mattress. The pillow shifts, but the crane only inclines its neck, as if in sober greeting. Carefully, Sable reaches out and plucks the bird up between thumb and forefinger.

She's heard about these.

Anticipating nothing good, she unfolds the creature, obliterating the careful construction, smoothing it out and revealing…

"Well fuck me sideways…"

…a grainy picture of one Magnes (don't forget the) J. Varlane. Beneath it, the words: 'He will need your help. He has needed your help'.

Turns out, if you don't go to the zany mystery game bullshit, the zany mystery game bullshit comes to you.

The Verb, Penthouse and Cat's Chamber

She's been up for hours, completed the morning routine of a workout, reading several publications over breakfast and coffee, and is just now stepping out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel, Cat walks in bare feet to the bedside table, drawn by the sight of an object which wasn't there when she woke. The item is taken up in fingers and studied for a moment. "About time," she murmurs dispassionately to the wall, before placing the thing back where it was left. Getting dressed is given priority over it for now.

Clothing is selected; as she doesn't have lawyer business today unless something pops up (please don't pop up) her choices are a Yale hoodie, jeans, and athletic shoes. It's a quick enough process, but is interrupted just as she's fastening a bra behind her back by a call from the reception desk. A visitor is on the way up, so instructions are given to open the access panel so this guest can reach the sixth floor, then she resumes dressing.

Less than a minute later, she's got that item from the bedside table in hand again and leaving the bedroom, heading out toward the appropriate entry door, with fingers opening the folded paper up to check out the contents. On reading it, she stops in her tracks, the other hand reaching to open one of those double doors and admit the person who should be arriving within moments, if she isn't already there.

She will need your help. She has needed your help.

That's all the unfolded origami tells her, aside from the grainy photo which defines who this particular she is.

Folding the paper neatly in quarters, the door is opened and eyes seek out the person to be admitted.

Barbara been putting off for a few days now, making a trip to see Catherine Chesterfield, for no real reason she could discern other than her usual form of worry. Time spent pouring over the set of drawings she had completed under the supervision of Scott Harkness days before, seeing if there was any little detail as to location or identity that she had somehow managed to miss in the moments after she'd drawn them. The vision itself was still as fresh in her mind as it could be, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something.

Of course, that was before the matter of the other picture she'd seen amidst it.

Loud footfalls herald her awaited arrival, having finally decided to stop putting off a meeting that probably should have happened three days ago, her bag with her sketches and materials slung over her arm comfortably as she slowly approaches Cat's door. A knock is given, despite the open door, out of courteously. "Catherine?" Barbara calls out, out of habit more than anything else, before eyes settle on the woman she's here to meet. "Ah! Sorry to come by so suddenly. I was hoping we could talk about something."

A quiet chuckle is emitted as she sees Barbara arriving by the stairs, followed by a murmur under her breath not meant for the triplet to hear. "Such timing, Hiro, really." And without letting on about what she just received in any way, gears are shifted. "Good to see you. I guess you prefer stairs to elevators?" Cat flashes a slight smile, moving aside to let her into the penthouse and planning to secure the door afterward. "What's on your mind?"

In Cat's world, very little is coincidental. Time will tell if this meeting follows that rule.

Russo's apartment.

The door to the bedroom swings open, flooding light from the hall into the bedroom. Russo stretches as he lingers in the doorway; he may have slept the majority of the day away, but after that panel discussion, he's beat, particularly at his failure to hide his hangover. With the light reflecting between the walls, it’s a wonder he doesn’t decorate. Of course, such an action would defeat his purpose; he’s a nomad in his own home, a wanderer refusing to settle amongst the ashes of his life.

With his head still throbbing, within moments he collapses on the bed, face down. No effort is made to undress or get amongst the sheets, Brad chooses to remain atop them. He rolls over only to pecked in the face by a paper crane. Nose wrinkling, Russo pushes himself to a sitting position, murmuring a quiet phrase to himself, “What the hell?” Had he done that while intoxicated before collapsing in between his drunken stupor and the discussion at the Suresh Centre.

With a heavy groan, Russo narrows his eyes at the paper beast in question, quite certain he couldn’t fold the figure sober let alone completely trashed. Pursing his lips together, he sighs and inspects it further. Further narrowing his eyes, he clucks his tongue. Is there something printed on it? Suspiciously, his gaze turns the room, not quite sure, before he unfolds it.

As the paper unfolds the picture causes his eyebrows to furrow. It’s a grainy picture of Melissa Pierce with the words: She will need your help. She has needed your help. His lips twitch into a lopsided grin accompanied by a chuckle, as he lays back on his bed, “Nice try, K. We both know you were never good with the practical jokes. I really need to figure out how you track me though…” And with that? He drifts to sleep.

Gun Hill — Delia's Apartment

On the nightstand, still un-noticed, is a small paper crane….

Delia pads into the room pressing her long curly hair into a towel. When it's wet it looks so much straighter and manageable than when dry, and drying it can be a real chore. Sometimes it takes all day.

She's dressed in the rugby shirt that Jaiden gave to her before he left on his trip, the piece of clothing has become a staple at night, like a security blanket or the ragged pink bunny that lays limp on her pillow. She stares at the mirrored doors of her closet, inspecting herself as she twists one way and then the other. The expression on her face is critical, the slight sneer to her lips as she eyes her hips that are a little too wide, her bottom that's just a little too padded, and finally a chest that's just a little bit too small. At least she's a pear and not an apple… things could be worse.

Using the mirror as a medium, she spies the crane on the night table and a soft smile appears on her lips. "Jaiden, you … god.." The last word is nothing but a breathless sigh as she turns and skips excitedly to the present that her boyfriend must have left for her. A small paper crane.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she looks as though she's about to make a wish before opening the note. Maybe she is. As the little bird is slowly unfolded, the smile fades from her face. Her blue eyes flit over the images presented and her breathing quickens to something of a panic. She's barely turned to catch herself on the bed when she collapses in a heap. The paper flutters to the ground.

The images of the Vietnam war aren't from Jaiden.

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