Muster II


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Scene Title Muster II
Synopsis A little healing, a little art, a little bit of rising from the dead, and then the medics are out and the soldiers sit to talk war.
Date January 13, 2008

Dahl's Safehouse

The new place is nowhere near as nice as the former. It's smaller, not as lit, though it's furnished as well. Two days after Dantes was pulled from the seedy motel, dragged to a ferryman safehouse, he was transferred to this place. Everything's not unpacked from the other place yet. Though it's clean and been sweeped and checked over. Minea rang Teo, Sonny and Abby up, meeting them partway down the stairs to vet them before passing over keys. Having to go fetch something is explained, she'd be back. Dantes upstairs, doing his thing. Whatever thing it is that men who survived Kazimir do.

Nothing terribly scandalous. Lie around reading, really. Dantes is much better, courtesy of Abby. But he's still weary and tired, and prone to his usual winter depression. Which means he's been a very quiet presence in this safehouse, reading his way through Robert Ludlum's Bourne trilogy.

It's amazing how everything seems to cross, everything has an axis. Sonny was rather surprised to find out that the case of Dantes was in any way connected to the Ferrymen - even more surprising, that Teo knows him. "You'd swear we lived in Podunk, Georgia rather than New York City with the way everyone seems to know each other." The doc's not got his own face right now - rather that of the identity of Reg Cooper. After his recent kidnapping, he's being a lot more cautious.

The doc in his disguise is walking beside Teo as they head up to the safehouse, knock and enter.

Abby's not saying anything. Letting Teo and Sonny do the talking, and apparently, has seen Sonny's 'other face' before. It wasn't a good night, it's shaping up to be a tiring day. Things come in three's they say, and this is number two. On the way over, it's been 3 coffee's and a redbulls. Likely anyone else, their heart would be in full arrest right now, or twitching on the floor. But it's Abby, and it par for the course. Just a quiet, caffeine riddled Abigail behind the two men.

The keys chime against one another hooked in Teo's fingers. He lets the good doctor give heads-up first, before reaching over to unlock the door and push it inward with the flat of his palm. Little doubt, his current state of intact and unharmed was a relief to his roommate, though the young healer probably has no real way of knowing where the Sicilian wound up staying over the last few scattered evenings he failed to turn up at the apartment.

"I'd probably be dead if I knew fewer people," he had answered with a little cheer, moments earlier. "Although I tend to question my taste in Feds more than all my other associations."

Which said just about everything and disclosed nothing in particular. Now, though, he's holding the door open, offering everybody the same beatific smile and the sort of sharp eye that accompanies concern more than concealing it. It hasn't been an auspicious start to the year 2009. "Buongiorno. Time to go to work, I'm afraid."

Dantes rises gracefully, and advances towards them. He doesn't look too bad off, really, for all that the shadows on his face have deepened, and the bones lie stark under the skin. "Miss," he says, nodding. "Teo," That last comment earns Teo one of those puckish grins. "I can't blame you,"he says, as if declining to take offense. "I'm entirely at your disposal," he adds, to the healers. And then he's eyeing Sonny's current face, rather thoughtfully. "Doctor Bianco, I presume?" he wonders, arching a brow.

"Hello, Edward," says Sonny. His smile is still the same. Still Hollywood, still flashing white teeth. "I've…had an incident lately. It's meant I need to be more cautious about these comings and goings. I'll try to always use this face though. But I hear I'm putting you back to the original. So we might not be seeing each other as much, hmm?" He slings the backpack off his shoulder and stomps his feet to rid his shoes of snow before he sheds various snow-coverings. "I hope you all don't feel unnerved if I don't switch back to my real face. It uses up energy and I'd just have to change myself again before we leave."

The doc glances back over his shoulder to Abby, then he arches a brow and looks to Teo. The healer-girl is given another look. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," is the only answer Sonny gets. Stressed, really actually, is more like it. But fine, is all he gets. She's shedding her coat when she's in, tapping feet to get rid of slush, the normal trappings of respect, kicking off her boots after so she doens't stop stuff all over the place.

The Sicilian doesn't trod in or take off his shoes, leaving himself installed at the door while the medics make themselves at home and introductions are made. Remade. That's obnoxious and complicated, but it could be worse, he's well-aware. Crossing his arms, he lets the strength go out of his neck. The plate of surgical steel inside his head makes a clink when his forehead hits the doorframe, leaning there, lazy, waiting for the temperature of his extremities to go back to matching his core.

He watches the three with a carefully neutral expression that probably equates, for those who know him, a certain amount of professional neurosis.

"I understand," Dantes says, quietly, "And no. No need to change. I know it's you, and I'm grateful for what you can do," The room's fairly bare - a spartan bedroom with bed and dresser and little else. There's a little heap of paperback books by the bed.

Sonny's way of being professional on the other hand, is to revert to his professional, friendly bedside manner. "Well, you know the drill. But…I'm guessing by the fact that Miss Abigail is here that you need some physical injuries tended to first?" Then he glances back towards the other Italian. "Teo, do you have that folder Minea sent over? With the photos? Oh no wait…I think I've got it here." He bends down to paw through his backpack. He pulls out a manila folder and flips through it. "Hope I can get you close enough to yourself, Ed."

"Couldn't fix him all the last time. Come to do it so you have a healthy… Dantes… to work on" She knows it's Ivanov. It clicked in the first meeting, when teo brought her and there was Christian. But she's kept her mouth shut. "When i'm done, you can have him" Abby motions for Dantes to take a seat, somewhere, so she can settle in, do her voodoo. A woman of little words right now.

The corner of Teo's mouth winds upward as Doctor Bianco unearths his folders. "Good. This is going to be weird," he remarks, despite having betrayed no visible disconcertment at watching the doctor shift his own skull around. It's a little different with someone whose face you had right up against your own for the better part of a day, a dead man undergoing the due process of returning to life, if only a little. His eyes drift to the stacked paperbacks, then to Abby's hands signing in the air, as if he can read between the lines of her motions. It doesn't require anything nearly that fancy for him to tell she's fucked up right now, of course, but his gaze lingers anyway.

There's merely a nod from Dantes, as he strips off his shirt with no sign of self-consciousness, but a good bit of stiffness. There are absolutely amazing bruises, strange blooming patterns on his skin the size of saucers, purple and blue and yellow, but oddly diffuse. Utterly unlike what you'd expect from any sort of normal blunt trauma. "My ribs and lungs are weak. I have no idea what he did to me. I coughed up blood at first, but that'd over now," he says, matter of factly. "And enough like my old self….that's enough."

Medical curiosity gets the best of Sonny. He moves forward, towards Dantes, though he stays far enough back so as to not crowd Abby. "…what…caused those?" He'd love to examine the injuries in more detail, but prolonging either Abby's suffering (by lack of a bed) and Dantes is not something he's willing to suggest to sate his curiosity. Instead, he drops back so he can examine the images in the file, to make sure he has a good enough reference. "It'll take me longer to put you back, but shouldn't be that difficult. I didn't make any major alterations to your facial bones." He glances to Teo. "You know, believe it or not? It's still weird for me sometimes."

Half-naked guy. oh god. If there's something to get some sort of reaction from her, it's that. Looking away from Dantes as he's now half naked, cheeks heated. She moves over enough to let Sonny look, get his fill in. She's in no hurry. She's got enough caffeine swirling through her to kill a horse, or at least account for her high blood pressure. "I don't know. I just know I had to go slow" She chafes her hands together. "Sit" She does, after he does before putting her hands on his chest. "Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit." It starts, warmth, tingle, Abby's eyed closed since she's off enough to need to actually concentrate.

At the door, Teo occupies himself frowning at the discolored canvas of the erstwhile Fed's injuries, even as Abby sets about effacing them. He wishes he knew how Doctor Ray was planning to make death stick to the shadow tyrant who apparently can't even be killed by fucking decapitation— but that's a lone intellectual quandary amid the sea of notions coarser and less selfless. He glances over at the spread of printed paper in Sonny's hands. "When you're doing your own, only clients', or sometimes both?"

Dantes is wiry lean, bullet scarred in three or four places across his chest, and utterly at ease. He obediently sits on the edge of the bed. As Abby works, his posture relaxes - nice to be able to breathe freely again. He's silent, eyes closed.

The prayers cause Sonny to rock-step back, to give Abby more room than she needs. He can't quite figure why it makes him as uncomfortable as it does. Then again, faith healers have traditionally been the enemy of doctors. They cause people to not seek real treatment. And most of them can't actually heal like she can. He stands beside Teo and crosses his arms as he waits for Abby's healing to be finished.

"Sometimes both. I mean, if I'm shifting myself into a new face, it's more disconcerting than into this one. It all depends on the amount of the change. You'd be amazed how tweaks to a nose can completely change how a person looks."

It's going to be a few minutes, till Dantes is going to be done. It's delicate work, undoing whatever it is that Kazimir did. Dantes can feel the tremble in her arms, she's having to work for all of it today, that's for sure. So she's oblivious to Sonny stepping back, to Teo's leaning against the door, shutting them all out, just working.

Teo remembers. He's broken his nose a few times. Insofar as other people did it with their hands and knees but, in all fairness, he broke his nose a few times. His arm twitches, stemming the automatic urge to reach up and grasp his own beezer at the memory. "Not that amazed," he says, a flash of a wry grin. His skull rolls on the edge of the doorframe.

Dantes puts a hand gently on Abby's shoulder, as if to steady himself or her. He doesn't comment at the little interchange between them, face still and almost serene.

"I think we take for granted how familiar our own bodies are. Until it's changed. I believe Ed would agree." Though Sonny murmurs this in low enough tones not to disrupt the healer or the man being healed. He waits patiently for the work to be done.

The splotches have faded, she's pumping a little more into him now, though the strength of the healing falters a bit with the hand on her shoulder. Something only he can feel. The sharp decline in strength, before it goes back up. Minute later, it drops down to nothing, as she pulls her hands away. "He's done" He is. She could do more, there's something more, but it's nothing that will kill him.

"Looks like the floor is yours, signor," Teo says, inclining his head at the good doctor. He has to finally pull his skull upright to do this, but it's a sacrifice that he makes willingly, and with a touch of dry humor: he's aware of his superfluity in this situation, and restlessness is beginning to tug at his boots, still not yet removed. "You have caffeine, Abby, or should I go get you some? Heading out?"

"Thank you," Dantes says, quietly. "I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay," He snags his shirt, and drags it on quickly as if to spare what's left of her maiden blushes.

When it's his turn, Sonny moves towards Dantes. "This is going to take a little longer and probably feel a bit stranger. I'm not reverting anything, I'm re-making you." He motions to the bed. "This is going to seem fairly awkward, but in lieu of a reclining chair…" He looks around, then pulls up a folding chair to the foot of the bed. "Please lie on your back and put your head on my knees." So that it duplicates the ideal position for him to work.

Once in place, the doc puts a hand on either side of Dantes' head to steady him and support his neck. The work begins as before, with the strange slackening of facial muscles. Every now and again, he pauses to glance at the various photographs, to check the progress and to make small tweaks. He falls into his own sort of trance as he works.

"I have caffeine, sleep on the bus. Going to work, i'll be home after" Abby answers Teo, a nod to Dantes. "No, you owe me nothing. Debt canceled when you died" It's not spoken to try and make Dantes feel bad, just laying it square between them. With that, while Sonny's working on Dantes, Abby's gathering her stuff up and after letting Teo know her schedule, she's making her way out the door.

Obligingly, Teo gets out of the young healer's way, nodding his head to confirm that he understands the words coming out of her mouth. "I'm not going to be home a couple nights — just until the thing gets sorted with— you know who. Stay safe, all righ— oh, cazzo. Yeah— by the way. The cat wandering around in there is for you. Food's in the cabinet. Merry— Christmas, bella." There's a break in the middle of the season's greeting, a hitch, and maybe a little something else broken besides, but the sentiment is solid, whole, unharmed by the insults of circumstance or misfortune. He smiles at her, lopsided, hapless; the expression makes him look younger than he is.

Abby nods, she'll react later. Cat, right. cat at the apartment. A kiss to Teo's shoulder, before poof goes the blonde.

Teo lives with her? Inasmuch as Dantes's face can show anything while Sonny's working, it's surprise. His face shifts, the eyes and hair growing paler, features more oddly angular. And strangely younger, really - Sonny's not bothering to add back the lines he smoothed away to begin with.

The process of Sonny's work continues. As before, there is a great deal of tingling after the initial strangeness. The difference this time is that it takes far longer. While the change to Edward Dantes only took a few minutes, the reversion back to Felix Ivanov takes more care and more time. It's only because the doc didn't drastically alter the bone beneath that this doesn't take upwards of an hour.

And it's not so much that Sonny's not bothering to add back the lines - it's more that the resolution of the images he has doesn't show them very well. He can only work from references and his own memory - and that's only so much to go from. The entire process takes about twenty minutes, then Felix is once again himself. "There we go. Have a look and see if everything is as it should be."

For once, Teo doesn't look particularly disgruntled at having some detail of his personal life disclosed in the company of a cop. Shit happens; things change; the circumstances he's living in will, inevitably, though the friendship he has with the departing woman might be a different thing. He might almost hope so. His smile takes its time fading. His attention swivels back, a subtle shake running through his limbs, self-discipline or a reasonable facsimile thereof. "Looks like his mugshot," he observes, after a moment. Laughter deepens the corners of his eyes. "Aibrushed."

There's a scrap of mirror leaned on the dresser, the better to groom and shave with. Fel rises, and peers into it, and makes a soft, startled noise. "Wow," he says, both amused and chagrined. "I look like me. The real me, but better. You improved me," he says, turning to Sonny with that too broad grin. He's lost that almost classical beauty and returned to his former rather bony self. "I….look years younger. That's funny," he says, almost wistfully, touching jaw and browline with hesitant fingers.

"Well, I can give you some more wrinkles if you really want. But Hell, there's an excuse. You played dead so you could go get some work done," Sonny grins, then claps Felix on the shoulder. "Welcome back. I…am still feeling a bit off. I think I'm going to head home, if you don't still need me." He glances to Teo. "You coming, or are you going to stick around?"

The Sicilian scrolls his eyes up toward the ceiling, considering that question for all practical intent while the older men talk about being pretty or whatever. He retains all his flaws belligerently! And is trying to make his brain think. "Staying awhile," he decides, after a moment, dropping his gaze again. "I have to talk to the Feds about some shit. See you soon, eh? Take it easy." He sloughs into another sideways step, removing himself from Sonny's course while the doctor starts rounding up his belongings.

"And I owe you, as well,' Fel's voice is lighter, now, without that former seam of gravel. "But no. I'll get my lines back soon enough, I'm sure, what with my job," he says. "Go well, doc. And let me know if there's ever anything I can do for you." He settles back on the bed, comfortably.

"I might call in that favour, one day," says Sonny with a grin. Foreign face, but his mannerisms come through just as it did with Dantes. He glances to Teo. "All right. If Amanda at the desk gives you any shit, make her call up, okay?" He finishes gathering the last of his things, then bundles up again for the trip to the car. "See you later, guys. You know how to get ahold of me if you need me." And then the doc's out the door.

Sonny has left.

Abby has left.

There's a thumbs-up at Amanda, and a discreet grimace when Teo realizes that— man, his catalogue of roommates is really being flogged across the stage in front of Felix Ivanov today, in ways both subtle and not. Any forward assumption or logical deduction would land the FBI agent somewhere in the proximity of the truth of the matter.

That should be embarrassing. Fortunately for Teodoro, he's met and exceeded his quota for flush-worthy situations as far as Lazarus is concerned, so there's merely a grunt, knuckles rubbed into his eye. "Colette needs to talk to you soon. As soon as you're done playing dead. Maybe even before you're done making Volken dead. If you're planning to go back to work."

"If I can get them to believe I'm me, definitely. There's so much to be done," Felix says, with complete aplomb. "And I intend to….why, what about her?" he wonders, caught on that point, and blinking eyes now gone a clear and rather faded blue at Teo. "My track record at killing Volken…not so hot thus far," he says, lips pulling into a wry grimace. "I make a crappy Van Helsing."

There's no real malice in the younger man's face or voice when he points out, genially, "You make a crappy literary figure, whichever one you name yourself after. I'm not sure why you like doing it so fucking much." There ought to be real malice in Teo's voice. Derision. Resentment, or— something else sincerely and facetiously unpleasant. There isn't, though.

At some point over the course of the last few weeks, he lost his grip on his bile and irritation— or else it's been displaced to other targets. A transition he notices belatedly, with a slight, inward frown at himself. "Maybe you should stick to being Felix Ivanov. He seems like someone who would save ninety percent of the world population, even if he couldn't collect Volken's head.

"Colette should tell you herself," he adds, with a touch of apology to the stoop of his head. "Nothing dangerous."

"I like books," Felix says, tone mild, unoffended. "And I'll be very glad to be Felix Ivanov again. I liked my life, and will be glad to have it back," He shrugs narrow shoulders, easily. "She's going to slap me for doing what I did, but it was to protect them. Ruskin was willing to threaten her to make me talk. And well……" He trails off, as if uncertain why he's explaining himself to Teo. But he's still watching the younger man with that odd, almost affectionate curiosity.

Either Teo's going to get used to those eyes staring at him out of that face, or he's going to amend his routine and immediate agenda so that he isn't going to have to. That's a lot of cognitive dissonance, even given the month he's just had. "She hates them for you.

"I'm pretty sure Ruskin would get a closed fist for every slap she drops on your face," he says. He doesn't know why he's offering reassurance; resolves that's probably his polite way of saying, No, you don't have to explain yourself. He's had loved ones threatened in recent experience. It isn't the most comfortable exercise in empathy.

Fel nods, mutely. "I'll speak to her as soon as I can," he murmurs, glancing at himself sidelong in that bit of mirror, stare still avid and bemused. I'm me again. And Sylar and Volken are out there, waiting. He rises to pace, barefoot despite the cold.

The afternoon is wearing on toward evening, burning orange into the sky over Minea's selected safehouse. Felix Ivanov has recovered his face. Teo's staring at said face from across the small room he's been recovering that and his health in, waiting for the motley crew of could-be allies to converge here, the agreed location, at some agreed time, so that they could undertake a conversation that would have fewer ridiculously uncomfortable undercurrents seething underneath. Hopefully, soon.

The Sicilian boy — man, really — remains fully clad, winter clothes on and boots, though there are damp tracks before the doorway he's still standing in, evidence of visitors who'd shed their footwear for the necessity of coming further in. Medics, Minea would know. "Welcome back," he offers the Russian, finally, with a quizzical eyebrow and half of a smile.

Felix is sitting on the bed - it's a bare and spartan guestroom, with little more than that twin bed and a dresser; nothing personal there, beyond the sheathed saber lying on the dresser. He's himself again, what with his cover blown - though oddly, younger looking, as if Sonny'd corrected the lines and signs of wear, making him a better version of his original self. He's in jeans and an unironed white oxford, currently stooping to pull on his boots. "Thank you," he says, quietly.

Minea has arrived.

Christian has arrived.

Deckard has arrived.

"Dobri Vecher," Comes the greeting from behind the door, in a properly familiar tone easily recognized as Christian. Granted, he doesn't wait for anyone to open the door for him, barring its locked(or after its opened) he slips inside with his riding gear still strapped down. "Shit fucking Christ, you would not fucking believe how cold it is out there. Fucker's cold as a hog's ear, I fuckin' swear."he consoles himself, unlatching his helmet finally as almost an afterthought as he looks for a place to sit where his back would be against the wall.

Minea can imagine how cold, she was out there earlier, giving the medical team their play time and fetching take out for the communal gathering that was happening at Cravaggio's (teo's) request. Chinese is the order of the day a little of everything for everyone and the civilian ISA agent is getting out paper plated, forks, spoons everything. "Evening Einliter"

From the neck down, Deckard is uncharacteristically presentable. He's in a three piece suit, white collar and buttoned cuffs starched stiff behind the line of a dark tie. The fact that the left side of his face is still stitched together in two long lines across brow and cheekbone and typical grizzled scruff make the suit's presence all the more incongruous, but he doesn't seem particularly self-conscious about it. He's in at Christian's heels, paced back just the right amount of steps to have successfully avoided conversation in the hall outside. His hat and coat have been discarded elsewhere. He does not say hello to Teo. Or Christian. Or Felix. Especially not Felix.

He does glare at him though, damp footfalls tracking just deep enough into the room for him to take up a rigid position just inside the door.

Teo knows just enough about Caravaggio to be mildly, facetiously embarrassed by the invocation of the name; he distantly appreciates that it isn't tossed around amid the various salutations exchanged between the safehouse's mismatched arrivals. He resists the urge to give Christian his customary punch on the shoulder Hello, glances out at Minea rustling with food and disposable cutlery. After a moment, he lopes across the room's cramped floor to snag the solitary chair, adjusting it in the dim light from the window.

Unzipping his jacket in one brusque motion, he unearths a handful of paper from an inner pocket. Assuming that he isn't shot in the head by someone terribly paranoid about terrorists reaching into jackets, he casts them out onto chair. Scanned photography shows against the paper grain.

A tank ridden by a soldier in an unmarked uniform, assault rifle in hands; a scene of nude corpses tumbled about in the square maw of a modern day freight container, like a scene out of Auschwitz eerily misappropriated out of time; three people at a poker table, the two men's faces disguised by pixellation, the woman unmistakably Eileen Ruskin — ten years older; a room full of photographs clipped to string.

"These are reprinted from a package we got from the year 2018. They describe the world that's left after Volken guts the human population with a supervirus. He gets to be king," he concludes — for now, lifting his eyes.

Fel, being Fel, and therefore an asshole (not that Dantes was much better), merely presents Deckard with a sphinxish grin, like a cat who's got the key to the fridge where the cream is kept. He doesn't ask what happened to the older man. Not yet, though the stitches are not precisely unnoticeable. But then Teo reveals that burden of knowledge he's carrying, and he moves over to examine the images. The smile fades into that peculiar emptiness; nothing there, not rage or fear or concern. "How did you get those? And how can you verify them?" There's not a lot of genuine skepticism in his tone, just that distant professional curiosity.

Christian frowns, he doesn't bother asking where they came from. He almost doesn't want to know really"So anyway, before we go further. Do we think he has access to biological or chemical weapons at this exact moment? Do we know his location, and I would assume that this much planning means he has a backup weapons cache somewhere. Do we know where that is?" Who knows what evidence of a bio-weapon could do, could Christian summon a Jdam from God's own hand?

"Bullshit" Comes from Minea's mouth. 2018? Is she the only one who isn't eating this line of crap? "You have pictures, from the future?" She's not bothering to come see the pictures, just finishing laying things out before getting herself a cup of coffee.

Felix's grin is fielded with a graceless clench at the muscles in Deckard's jaw. The glare is discontinued. It follows Teo instead. The reach, and the photos that follow it out.

Hi kids, welcome to class. Today we'll be learning about…photos from the future. After a lengthy look out the door that determines no one else is coming, Flint reaches to push it closed. That done, he persists in hanging back, in no rush to join the likes of Christian and Ivanov around the chair.

"I didn't. And I can't. I don't like them, but they seem to impress everybody else. Apparently seeing this shit helps make the thing seem real, for most people." Teo's pale eyes are curiously flat behind fringy eyelids. His gaze shifts between Christian and Minea and the corner of his mouth lifts, humorlessly. "I was more interested in all that solid proof of a megaomaniacal Evolved serial killer with a multi-million dollar global project pissing around in our yard, stealing rare virus samples and scientists.

"We're pretty sure Volken has his bio-weapon already and all the equipment necessary to disperse it. It starts in Manhattan: he's going to blow the bridges soon, cut the island off. We don't know his current location, but we know a lot of his locations. He has people and resources everywhere. There's a man with correspondence with the future and the ability to predict probabilities. He's working up a plan, along with somebody who worked with HomeSec and the Mossad before.

"HomeSec, SCOUT, and a few other associates already have what we know.

"If you guys want in, I need to know what you're willing to do. Pardon the flagrant oversimplifications, and all that shit. Figured, summary first, details later," Teo says, suddenly rueful again, his features softening as he glances down at his socked toes. The squeak of the shutting door doesn't make him look.

"Assuming I can convince my employers I am neither an impostor nor a zombie revenant, the Bureau will be all over this like ants on a gummi bear," Felix says, coolly, though the pale eyes are alive with calculation. "Counter terrorism being their particular bag, and this is enough to make Al-Qaeda look like teenagers with cans of spraypaint." the bodies. That image will haunt him. YOu cross half the world to escape the gulag, but the darkness of the human heart remains. Everywhere. He picks them up, each in turn, as if memorizing them

Christian works his jaw some in consideration, unconsciously untying his Shemagh and folding it delicately in his lap. "I'll talk to my boss, but aside from my rifle. I don't think it'd be unreasonable to at least request a high precision air strike, a Jdam or two with someone on the ground manually painting the target. I'm sure at least I can get some guys from San Diego to back me up, the Devgru has been itching to get in on some domestic shit."

They're buying this. "You've gathered this all, from.. a guy who's getting messages from the future?" It's a little hard to swallow. Evovled gifts, yes, sure, but still… Minea looks to Christian, then back to Teo.

"Yes. And you probably wouldn't have believed me if I said so ten years ago, but I can see your panties." is Deckard's first contribution to the conversation. Irritation slithers ill-suppressed through the lines in his face at Felix and Christian's. He keeps to the wall.

Something like surprise tugs Teo's right eyebrow upward. Of the various men present, and despite that they're all saying interesting things, he winds up staring first at the woman. "Signora—" Teo's cut short when Deckard speaks, and he might have been been angry or merely incredulous; either way, by the time the panties come up, he's restrained his tongue and his tone finds somewhere neutral to be. "Do me a favor and clean your ears.

"A virus has been stolen. Kazimir Volken can't be killed— even by this fucker cutting his head off," he points at Felix. "His operatives have spent the last few months seeding conflict between the Evolved and non-Evolved all over Manhattan, framing terrorist groups, finding new personnel like Sylar. That isn't from the future, that's pretty fucking recent history."

He stops and squeezes a blink out of his eyes, as if to physically insert a full stop and paragraph break before he goes back to the other thing. He reaches up, snares long, callused fingers through his hair. "Sounds good. Both ideas. But there's a theory going around, founded on a little biohazard protocol and the general belief that the government's a collective asshole who's going to do what it has to do. They say your hands might be be tied, far as the official channels go. The FBI, your— friends," he nods at Christian. He can't pronounce that right now, and isn't going to try.

"They say Homeland Security could be the ones who blow the bridges and then burn Manhattan to the ground. To stop the virus getting out. You know: cut off the hand, spare the body. I think the term is the scorched earth policy. I want to know if you'd be willing to work without your respective bureaus. If you'll work with Phoenix."

"I'll do whatever's necessary to keep this from getting out into the general populace, and ideally from getting out at anyone at all," Felix says, with neither flinching nor hesitation - there's still that maddening serenity in his face. That's the whole point of being a cop, of whatever flavor. Protect and serve, even if his gold shield has changed shape. "But in all honesty, without that resource at my back, I'm just another Evolved ex-cop," Funny how you have a thing for those, Teo.

Christian waves his hands dismissively. "No, that's not how that protocol works. Consider this, and you'll know why it doesn't happen that way. Virus gets spread by an aerosol, while people come and go from the island. It takes how long for the virus to be detected, lets call it a week. By then its already out. Assuming this fucker makes an announcement, a promise even? Well the government doesn't cater to terrorists demands, they'd be terrified of him bluffing. Assuming they think he's legit, well it takes about six hours to organize an airstrike overseas. Considering the red tape, maybe twelve hours if everything goes smoothly. Even then they would never do it with loss of life, so they'd need to evacuate the bridge. That means that they'll barricade one end, which itself takes time and even then by the time the barricade is up one infected individual could have slipped by. The Government, couldn't blow the bridges if Rickham told them so. It just doesn't ever happen like that."

He pauses, Christian that is, to sniffle some. "No, if he wants the bridges blown he'd have to do it himself. Something with a cellose base, and a high rate of thermal expansion so lets say RDX? Well you'd need about a thousand pounds to blow the deck, at either end to really destroy it. No lets focus on how he manages to spread this, its a virus so he'll probably want to use targeted infections on people like police and hospital staff to make sure its spread rapidly and to all over the island. A Virus cant exist outside of the host for very long, so we don't need to worry about a waterborne attack or an aerosol dispersal."

Oh, Minea heard it. She's just trying to wrap her head around the whole from the future thing. But Deckard's comment goes off without even a bat of her eyes in his direction. She just nods to Christian. It's his forte, it's not hers. But she nods, agree with him.

"With the resource you're a bunch fuck heads that can't flush a pack of 'teenagers with cans of spraypaint' out of the desert. The less of you we have around, the better." Ever the helpful piece of shit regardless of how schizophrenically he decides to dress on a given day, Deckard hears Christian out in bristly, paranoid silence. Stolen viruses, people that can't be killed. "The government has never had to deal with something like this before. I'm just guessing here, but the looming apocalypse might have an impact on standard operating procedure."

Teo deeply appreciates Flint Deckard's input. Which probably means the world's about to end. Which is— hilariously ironic and a little morbid. He ends up bobbing his head in the old man's wake, agreement. "I'm pretty sure most of the things Homeland Security would never do are going to get done over the next couple weeks. I'd appreciate it if you could see what your bureaus would do, though. Call it a litmus test. If they're going to send in a lot of people, maybe that implies one less thing to worry about.

"I can't say I think they're wrong," the young man adds, blankly. It makes sense.

There's a slight jerk of his head, sideways, as if Teo's shaking that idea out of his ear. It takes up too much space. There's other stuff to talk about. "According to the data we have, at least pre-tailoring, it's an airborne virus and the types of dispersal units he's been investing in are consistent with that information. We also know some of his target locations. Ventilation systems, the wind." He picks his hands up, antsy, visible restlessness; jams them into his pockets.

"Even if it means taking orders from Phoenix?" It takes him a moment to remember who'd voiced assent and, thus, it takes him a moment to look at Felix again.

"Yes," Felix says, simply and without doubt. He nods to Deckard as if the man had made a very cogent point. Perhaps he's just filtering out the sarcasm. When you've been NYPD long enough, you learn.

"DHS does not have the equipment to blow up a bridge, they don't have the people either. That means they'll go through the airforce or the national guard, and -nobody- will want anything to do with bombing a bridge on US soil. The military becomes less efficient, under pressure. The virus is the curiosity though, most viruses cant tolerate the air for more than a minute or so. Nothing should be able to live in this weather, at all. I would focus on finding the transport system, and destroying those with small arms. If nothing else, thermite will destroy any viral delivery system. "See, tax dollars at work. All those fucking terrorism conferences, all the training the US gov't had paid for at work before your eyes. Christian you see, didn't sleep through all of them.

Having groused at most everyone present and made as much of a point as he's inclined to make, Deckard falls silent again. Verbally, at least. His expression still reads of as much unease and distrust as stitches will allow for, even in the wake of Felix's flat agreement to Teo's terms. He scowls and listens and keeps his back to the wall without ever actually leaning against it. Then he scowls some more.

Teo's jaw hikes a smile, a figment of real affection for the FCC's giant. It goes away the next moment, of course: it's inappropriate to smile in this sort of situation— scowling seems a lot more professional, honestly, but he nods his agreement even if it isn't his place to offer actual approval. "That's part of the plan. Unfortunately, it's pretty hard to destroy the wind. Even with thermite.

"Are you two opting to try your people first, then?" He looks at Christian, Minea, and starts to look at Deckard before braking his gaze about halfway through that arc and returning to the two partners. Tries not to look the part of an anxious puppy threatened with abandonment and succeeds, for the most part; he's experiencing too much existential fatigue and cold to manifest emotions as sanguinely as he normally does.

Chris is totally not a giant. Anyway, Mr.Isnotagiant seems somewhat distracted for a moment. "Well, yeah of course but this is the army. We're better off just doing this ourselves, we need decisive use of violent action. We dont need this huge hammer, we need quick action. He's expecting a huge response from a government entity, one he probably either understands or has moles within. He cant see us though, if we move fast enough. I can get a few anti tank missiles."

"My hands thrown in with what Einliter decides. I was assigned ot him and to whatever the needs for said assignment were with my capabilities. I don't have the…" what did einliter have? "Joie de vivre that he has, my forte lies in forgery, but I can shoot as good as him and is that good enough?"

The puppy is not abandoned. It would wag a tail if it had one, once or twice, haplessly. Teo's smile takes longer to fade this time. He can't tell who here is trusting too easily: the Feds who take him at his word, or that he's accepting theirs, for the most part.

At least for now. He watches their eyes without any real belief in his ability to read those, lacking Matt Parkman's preternatural influence and Deckard's informed history of cynicism and experience. "Thank you. Very much. The more gun arms we have on us, the better, I think. I'll give the organizers your names and all that shit. You'll either hear from them or from me."

Concluding that with a slight duck of his head, Teo then proceeds to stare expectantly at old man Deckard.

Christian clears his throat, before sniffing. "Just tell me when you want to go. I'm ready now, if that's the time frame in question. I reckon Minea is, assuming you brought your load out?" His gaze slowly lifting to Minea.

"Can get it in a day, in storage," Minea assures her partner, "Still fits and still in good shape. Don't worry on that count."

Deckard nods. Cloudy, resigned acknowledgment, agreement, acceptance. Whatever. All of the above. Everything's fucked either way, isn't it? Eye contact there is brief and distant. He could be looking through Teo for all the impact it carries with it. He may well have been.

"There's something else we need to talk about," is added on a few seconds later. To the chair, rather than Teo, as if he might not hear it if he talks in that direction, which would both give him the convenience of not having to deal with it right now and the truth of saying he tried.

"Now isn't the timeframe. Soon, though," Teo says with what looks like sincerity; something he's rarely if ever short on. He is happy to catch Flint's gaze, for what that's worth. Not much. Stared through, he stares back, knitting a slight furrow of concern into his brow that deepens, after a moment, into confusion.

It may be assuming a lot to conclude there's a new thing to think about, but it's an easy assumption to make, because Deckard is being shifty and personifying the furniture. Also, Teo just farted photographs from the future out here and he doesn't think you can get much stranger in the way of overshare than that. "…Okay," he answers, distinctly quizzical. His gaze flits past Minea and Christian as if to beg pardon. "Now?"

Christian lifts his gaze from Minea, to Deckard. "Good Minea, you should get it out just in case." Granted, he wouldn't be opposed to feeding Deckard his own teeth with a wood chisel and a pair of needle nose pliers. That doesn't mean he wont listen though.

And Minea wouldn't be opposed to garroting him with the dental floss she calls undergarments but the Brunette just sips her coffee. "If you don't want us to hear, out of the safe house. If you don't mind being overheard, get some food" And with that Minea walks off, presumably to make a call about her storage. "I got work to do. The apocalypse doesn't keep them from wanting Documents."

Lines etch out harsh over the lift of Deckard's brows at Teo's 'now?' and his cheeks puff out around a sigh at Minea's desire for them to depart if what he has to…depart…somehow manages to fall into an unsharable category of secrets despite everything that was just disclosed. Half a beat and one last sideways look at Christian later, he turns to let himself out.

Something that faintly resembles alarm starts working its way into Teo's features, although a helpless spate of manic laughter threatens to cut it short. Fortunately, he manages to refrain from doing either of those things or anything equally inappropriate. "I'll be back for a bite if you don't mind, signora.

"Thanks." He flips a hand up in brief farewell to the three that remain, and excuses himself with a long stride out in Deckard's wake, hands in his pockets, tousled head slung forward, down, in a faint, hangdog slouch between his shoulders. Once a hooligan, always a hooligan.

Christian dips his head softly as the pair depart, eyes slowly closing as he reaches out. Its a quiet thing, his ability doesn't even offer a tangible trace to those around him that its really on. Granted, its never really off mind you. Now however, required special attention. Where were they going, and what the fuck else could Deckard do to make Chris dislike him. Perhaps killing puppies.

January 13th: Home Jeeves, Er Darius!
January 13th: By The Way
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