Participants:
| Scene Title | Nesting Eagles |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Hugh breaks the news on his next assignment to his wife. She is not happy. |
| Date | February 16, 2009 |
Hugh and Gwendolyn's Apartment
It's a beautiful place. Cheaper than it was, considering it looks down the long concrete and glass canyons to the ruins of midtown. There's floor to ceiling windows, no balcony, at this height. There's enough of a ledge on the outside of the window that a pair of falcons have come to nest there, to Hugh's outspoken delight. He's currently squatting on the living room carpet, behind a convenient piece of one-way mirrored film stuck to the window, lest human passage disturb the birds, nominally watching the mother brood her two eggs. But he's got that faint furrow between his brows that means he's thinking, and not about something pleasant. Hugh's a cheerful man - whatever atrocities in his past, witnessed or committed, don't seem to much disturb him. Not a lot of angsting about his life. Still, there's that unwontedly thoughtful air to him.
One would think that Gwen's idea of cooking involves picking up a phone and applying numeric didgets. But no, she is rather blissfully puttering in the kitchen putting tray of samosas in the oven, calling out absently, "White wine?" She's not paying attention to his focus on the birds, or even seems aware of his distress.
Hugh glances back over his shoulder at her. "Aye," he says, softly. "I've got an odd case to work on," he notes, finally levering himself up, placing a palm lightly on the glass to push up and away, as he pads over towards the kitchen. He's wearing black sweats, grey t-shirt - post workout lounging gear. "Seems I had an evil twin."
"An evil twin?" she echoes uncertainly. In their line of work that could mean any number of things. "Can you be more specific?" She pulls a bottle out of their modest wine cupboard.
He meanders over to the kitchen counter. There's a manilla envelope on it. He flicks it open, and tugs out photos. One of whom is obviously taken from a security camera, most likely a bank's - there's a grainy image of Hugh. The second is an SAS unit, posed before a helipcopter in the dust-colored mountains of Afghanistan. There's Hugh again. Only, the insignia of the group is not one he ever served with. "Look here," he says, tapping the his apparent image in the latter with a fingertip. "Looks like me, dunnit?"
Gwendolyn frowns a bit as she looks at the images. "That's not your unit insignia." She looks up at him, frowning. "You know, you could just have been deep conditioned for some heavy class work. It's not like they're not capable."
"That was my thought. That, or a photomanip of some kind," he says, gravely. And then reaches in to pull out a last photo. Hugh. Dead, half his face apparently destroyed, but still very obviously him. "Those bloody terrorists, the one involved in the bridge incident. This lad, whoever he was, was one of them. I called my mum. I did not, according to her, have a twin brother."
Gwendolyn does not like this, not at all. "Genetic manipulation? Was he Evolved?"
"No, he wasn't," Hugh says, shaking his head. "Or so the tests done on what was left of him'd seem to indicate," He jams his hands in his pockets. "Seems that some of his mates have gone to ground out on Staten. I'm to investigate. And then, likely, infiltrate. Might be they don't know this laddy here was dead. I wish I'd met him. Might've had to kill him myself, but…."
Gwendolyn frowns. "So there's no apparent explanation, and the best bet we can consider is some form of government project or outside influence?" A soft sigh. "How long are you going to be away? Are you going to be away? Aren't I the one who's supposed to go on silent missions, not you?"
"None that Goodman or the Company has on hand, no," Hugh says, looking as perturbed as she's ever seen him. "I think….not long at first. But eventually, depending on how it all goes, undercover there for some while. And yeah - you were always the subtle one. I like to think I'm clever enough, but I'm the blunt instrument by comparison," He wanders over to put his hands on her hips, nuzzle the back of her neck, but it's not so much an amorous gesture as it is a fond one.
Gwendolyn sighs, leaning against him. "We got out so we wouldn't have to spend time ages away from each other." she complains, and then shrugs. "Eh. I'm whinging."
He plants a kiss in the little hollow behind her earlobe. "I know. Well, maybe this can be wrapped up quickly. It's still better than it was. I'm not squatting in some Afghan landmine hole, dealing with bearded fanatics," He glances past her to the lights of the city coming on - the falcons have come home to roost, and are preening each other gently in the little concrete-bordered nook they've claimed for their own.
Gwendolyn runs a hand through his hair. "Darling, this doesn't strike me as a clean up quickly sort of thing. Can you tell me mission parameters, or are they classified?"
"Looking for a bastard named Ethan Holden, who was apparently associated with our missing Doctor Knutson," Hugh explains, closing his eyes, and resting his chin on her shoulder. "i'm to tail this mope, see what there is to see. And, if I can, pass myself off as his dead mate. A little vacation to the ruins of Staten. At least I speak the language."
Gwendolyn looks dismayed - not because she doesn't think he can't handle it - she knows he can. "There's no way this won't involve deep cover, Hugh. I - " she cuts off, smiles tightly and asks with resolve, "How long before you go in?" Stiff upper lip.
"A few days. Week at most. Now, I'll still be coming home most nights," he notes, cuddling her again. "If I'm lucky, I won't have to get in deep there at all." He doesn't sound terribly sanguine about that as an actual possibility, though.
"We both know that's not true." she says quietly. "We're good at deluding other people, not ourselves. How long before you're deployed, did you say?"
"A few days before I go and dip m'toes in the pool. I don't know how long until I have to really dig in and put on the game face," Hugh murmurs, nuzzling at her hair.
And suddenly it occurs to her that she's talking mission and he's getting amorous. "I'm going to burn the samosas." she protests mildly.
"Make more later," is his airy response, even as he reaches over to turn off the heat.
 February 15th: Speak Your Mind. Please. |
 February 17th: Charlie Riggs |