Participants:
| Scene Title | Not Quite Stasi |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Hagan and Felix draw comparisons between Evolved registration and similar events in history. |
| Date | November 21, 2008 |
The Nite Owl is a survivor from ages past - one of those ancient diners with huge plate glass windows, checkerboard linoleum floor, and a neon owl over the entrance that blinks at those entering. Inside, there's an L-shaped main counter, complete with vintage soda fountain and worn steel stools. All of the cooking is done on the ranges ranked against the rear wall. The outer wall is lined with booths upholstered in cracked scarlet vinyl, tables trimmed with polished chrome. Despite its age, it's been lovingly maintained. The air is redolent with the scent of fresh coffee, vanilla, and frying food.
There's a man who's been here awhile now. A shortish, thin Irishman with crazy hair, to be specific. He's slumped over one end of the counter with a plate of food that's barely touched. He's covered in various lacerations and scratches and one ankle is held out at an awkward angle. Not a happy customer.
So, Hagan ran afoul of Peter Petrelli too, huh? Because Fel doesn't look much better as he limps in - one side of his face is battered and stitched, as if someone had carefully taken a baseball bat to just one half of him. He's greeted by the waitress and the cook behind the counter; apparently he's something of a regular. "Ran into an Evolved terrorist," is his curt explanation to their questions. He drops down on a counter stool carefully, and puts his head in his hands for a moment.
The words 'evolved terrorist' bring up Hagan's heckles. He peers just over his arm at Felix and gives him a dark, weary look. Then he straightens and purposefully half-swivels his chair so that he doesn't have to face him. Anyone -complaining- about Evolved terrorists is a dangerous chatting-partner.
Felix straightens up and starts to dump just unholy amounts of sugar and cream into the coffee he's been poured. "None other than Peter Petrelli himself. I honestly don't know why I'm still alive," Felix admits.
Although Hagan's met Peter, the name doesn't register. But he does give Felix another cagey look. Then he goes about heaping butter and smashing it around with a great deal of agitation. This is why he doesn't make a very good terrorist. Discretion isn't his strong point.
"Not so much luck with the terrorist hunting, then?" the waitress wonders, pausing. It's late enough that it's not too busy, but before the hours when this is one of the few places open. "You've seen the news," Felix says, dryly, glancing up from his scanning of the menu. "Busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. It's stupid. We get ID cards for the little old ladies who are good at making their pet budgies turn different colors, but we can hardly get a handle on the bastards who can cause earthquakes just by thinking about it."
"Will you…" Hagan's voice goes up and he has to force himself to pull it back. "…keep it down over there? I'm trying to have a nice buttery dinner." He stabs at his potatoes and at what's left of his steak. He's certainly imagining the steak is something other than a hunk of dead cow.
Felix turns a surprised look on Hagan, blinking at him over the rims of his glasses. "Sorry," he says, in a most un-New-Yorkerlike fit of politeness, before going on more softly, "I shouldn't likely say this, considering my job, but the whole registration thing is paper over a crevasse. It doesn't help us track down the bad guys, it penalizes the law abiding Evolved," he mutters. "And people abuse the list. I had someone come after me after finding my name and address on it." The waitress nods in sympathy, idly polishing a glass.
"It's bloody stupid is what it is. Only fools would voluntarily put themselves on a hit list." Hagan jabs a few steamed carrots onto his fork and pops it into his mouth. He chews with aggravation. "And the cops can jump to conclusions and call you Evolved when they've no proof. It's McCarthyism all over again. Pretty soon neighbors are going to start pointing fingers and calling their neighbors Evolved just because they don't mow their lawn or some shit."
Felix's expression is very wry. "IT's already started," he says, sounding rather morose about it, before placing an order for soup and a sandwich.
"I'm sure of it. All this bullshite does is create a climate of fear. You put your name on the list and it's as bad as registering as a sex offender. You don't, it's breaking the law," a beat, and then, Hagan says purposefully, "I feel fucking bad for people in that situation." Pointedly, not him.
"Enforcement is haphazard at best," Fel sighs, quietly. "And so do I."
"I shouldn't even be saying anything. Next thing that happens is you or someone else phones me in as a dirty commie. Oh, did I say commie? I meant Evolved sympathizer." Hagan's words are bitter. He takes a long pull from his coffee.
Felix's voice is a drawl, and his expression dryly amused as he pours another measure of cream into that coffee, "I'm not quite Stasi -yet-," he notes.
"This country isn't far from it," mutters Hagan into his coffee. "I'm sure if it hasn't happened already we're a heartbeat away from Registered or suspected Evolved having bugs in their walls."
Felix merely nods sagely. No use arguing when it's either the truth, or nearly so.
"I'd say I want to get out of this country, but I can't imagine things are any better back home." Hagan pushes his plate away, clearly disgusted. Then he fishes into his wallet and pulls out the money to pay for his meal.
"I'm not sure what the EU is proposing to do, but I'm sure it's far more sane than what's happening here," Fel notes, quietly.
"You give the EU too much credit. They may not have kneejerk reactions, but a coalition of nations with such diverse backgrounds leads to way too much squabbling and bureaucracy." Hagan stands and seems to forget the pain in his ankle. He stumbles, hisses, nearly curses and holds on to the counter for support.
Felix offers a hand up, unthinkingly. "You….well, obviously, you're not okay. What happened?"
"I'm -fine-. Just a little sore. Just got in the middle of a scuffle I shouldn't have," That's mostly the truth. Hagan gathers his change from the waitress and drops a tip back down. He then tries to step, adopting a hopping motion so as to keep as little weight on his ankle as possible.
"Boy, do I know that feeling," Fel says, shaking his head.
"My lesson is never try to help anyone in this fecking city. You tend to get shot, lacerated and maimed." Hagan takes another look at Felix, as if making note of his face. He then limps towards the door. "Try not to get involved in anything."
Felix says, amused, "Far too late for me. Good luck with that,"
"Then…" Hagan glances back over his shoulder before he pushes open the door. "Make sure you have a good health plan." And then he's off, limping towards the nearest cab.
 November 21st: This Is Fucked |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 22nd: Any Questions? |