Participants:
| Scene Title | No One Knows Anything |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Even Vincent Lazzaro, it would seem is out of the loop on this one. He takes a moment in the aftermath to check on Tasha. |
| Date | June 10, 2010 |
Manhattan and Staten Island
Thirty-seven stories straight up, Vincent Lazzaro is no longer in range of sirens wailing, horns honking, civilians screaming or tires screeching, though the tell-tale red and blue cycle of first responders rolls regularly through the streets laced out before the sprawling window of his office. Clear skies out there today. And chaos.
Which isn't to say it's quiet in the Department of Evolved Affairs. Left arm akimbo, the other pinning a cell phone to his ear while he pauses in his pacing long enough to log jerkily into the laptop open on his desk, he has to listen to the line ringing through under voices raised and papers fluttering and phones ringing, ringing, ringing off the hook just beyond the closed door. His own landline has been pointedly disconnected. Just for a moment.
Why is she all the way in Staten Island? Tasha's eyes are swollen from crying and confusion from what she saw in the vision and the fact that Colette isn't answering her cell phone. With a backpack full of the various items forgotten in the Lighthouse kids' haste (a retainer, a math book, a teddy bear, an iPod), Tasha stands waiting for a boat back to Manhattan when her cell phone rings. The battery's low from the ten attempts to call Colette and the various texts she's sent in addition, but the reception is fairly good surprisingly.
Her father. Is she up to lying to him? She knows ignoring him, especially since her phone is on and he can trace it, will defeat the purpose, so she presses talk.
"Dad," she says, almost sounding happy to hear from him. "What the hell was that…"
"Tasha," echoed back with a quickness that makes his hand fumble at the keys, Vincent stretches to accomodate his much abused backspace and hesitates where she fills in words where he already had some ready. Namely where are you and are you hurt or do you require medical assistance.
He has to say: "…I don't know," instead. Which is the truth, conveniently, with the great metal seal of the Department's eagle poised on the adjacent wall as his witness. He glances to it, maybe a little warily, and turns his back on the computer to pace for the windowed wall instead. "Are you okay? Injuries? Dangerous location?"
The lies are on her tongue, but there is no need to hide certain truths from her father anymore, since he already knows them. There's a sharp intake of breath that suggests she's near tears, hurt or frightened or both. But, "I'm okay," is what she says — it's mostly true. "I think I sprained my wrist falling down, but it's nothing, it's not broken. I'm on Staten, waiting for a boat but they're… slow. I'm not sure any are coming."
She brings her thumb to her mouth, chewing the thumb nail as she does when she is nervous, staring across the water for a couple of seconds, before adding, "You're okay? Did you … did you see anything?" The texts she's received and the hub-bub on the street has given her a brief idea of what happened, given what she saw — but she doesn't know if the visions were just nightmares or possible futures — she's hoping for the former.
"Don't — " says Vincent, and she can probably visualize him pushing at the bridge of his nose across the line, "try to force your way onto one of those boats if there's a crush. Panicked people are prone to losing their minds." Especially when they're people tying to cross a body of water on pirate boats.
Christ.
A helicopter buzzes low off the roof and he strikes back for the rich wood of his desk. Back to the computer, too, so he can finish logging in and fumble for the right USB. His, "No," is firm. He does not ask if she saw anything. "Are you alone?"
Tasha nods, which is silly, as he can't see it. Her fingers curl around the strap of her backpack as a rugged, haggard looking man walks close by on the pier, glancing at her in a frightening way. "I … yeah. I thought it'd be a quick trip here and back. I can go back to the Lighthouse if the boats aren't safe, or…" Or one of the safehouses on Staten goes unsaid. "Was… were the visions real, like, premonitions, or like… like some nightmares or something?" She wasn't in the city when the Nightmare Man held his (her) reign of terror, but she heard about him. Please say they aren't real, she thinks to herself.
"I don't know, Tasha." Remarkably patient while he plugs into the phone and mouses over to call up the usual tracer, he shifts the phone from one shoulder to another and shakes his head irritably at a younger woman trying to wave still another phone at him from the door. Which she just opened. Probably after he ignored her knocking.
He juts his jaw when she covers the receiver and mouths, Praeger, his brow furrowed and teeth just starting to show. "No one knows anything. Call your mother if you haven't already. I have to go."
"Okay," Tasha says softly. She hadn't called her mother yet but sent a text — mostly because she didn't want to tie up her phone if Colette tried calling back, as somehow she fails to understand how the call waiting on her cell phone works and hangs up on one or both parties every time.
She looks up at the cloudy sky, blinking back tears again. "Thanks for calling," she adds softer yet, that choked-sound in her throat suggesting that whatever she saw — either in the vision or the world recovering from the vision — has shaken her. But whatever she saw will join the ranks of all the other things she and he have not talked about.
"Call your mother," repeated by means of a dubious 'you're welcome' or even 'adios,' Vincent hits tab, enter and a few seconds later, the end call button on his Blackberry. Then he's plugging his landline in and saying, "Just transfer him, please," and alternately reaching for his reading glasses and gesturing for invasive company to get the hell out. As Lazzaros do.