Participants:
| Scene Title | Not Vigilantes |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | SEE TITLE. |
| Date | February 16, 2008 |
Fel has a contact. Or else he's found a new place to be his new little lovenest. Because he emerges from one of the houseboats in the harbor, dressed drably to stick out a little less. No glasses, either. He seems energetic enough despite the hour, creeping along first gangway and then the dock with the furtive grace of his namesakes. IT's still a busy harbor - criminals don't keep regular business hours, but Fel's making a point of seeming interested in nothing but the departure of the next semi-legit ferry.
It is a busy harbor, and criminals don't keep regular business hours. How Deckard managed to pick Felix Ivanov's skeleton out of the thick of things at this hour is hard to say. A tip, an educated guess based on the high population density of weasels out here, pure dumb luck. Whatever the case, a familiar pair of sunglasses swings around to take note of Ivanov's exit from an unfamiliar boat, and after a few seconds of shouldering past people who smell like everything from dead hookers to whiskey and garlic, Deckard is there at the fed's shoulder, accusation as thick in the air as the hang of his breath.
The fracture pattern in his ribs and collar bone is distinctive, from those old shootings. Back when Fel was an ordinary pig with a gold NYPD shield. Fel smells of nothing but clean canvas and soap. He turns to face Deckard, squared up like he's expecting a blow. His face is cold, giving little away, as he eyes the other Evolved.
Deckard smells like Deckard. Whiskey and cheap cologne. The bruising across the left side of his face is well on its way to healing, now. All greens and yellows. The rest of him is in decent condition, and appears to be deeply unhappy about Felix's presence here in what passes for his back yard, lately. "You know, if you have a death wish," he trails off a beat, brows lifted, "all you have to do is ask."
"I don't," Felix says, biting off each syllable. His gaze searches Deckard's face, as if looking for another hint. "My business here isn't with you," he adds, hauteur still frosting his voice. Like Deckard is a peasant in his way.
Uncharacteristically stone-faced from the brow down, there isn't much to read in the bleak lines around Deckard's eyes and mouth that doesn't spell dislike. Hatred, even. His sunglasses don't have much more to add, but he does lean in. Just a hair. "This isn't just another nasty part of town, Brasco. I so much as peep and you're dead in so many ways they'll have to make your movie into a trilogy to cover all of them."
There's a little chuff of laughter, a bitterly humorless explosion of breath at that, from Felix. "That may be so," he says, lifting his hand slowly as if to remove glasses he's not actually wearing. "But you'll go with me, if it comes to that," he adds, letting his hand fall. "Deckard, I don't know know what you're up to. You're not my problem, I'm not interested. I'm not your enemy. What is it you want from me?"
Not the first time that question's been asked. Not the first time it's not going to get answered in a satisfactory manner. Deckard stares as if he's not quite sure why it's being posed again, especially here and now, baffled long enough to stave off a quick reply. When he does speak, he's careful to keep his voice quiet, as before. "The fact that you're here at all is a problem. The fact that you exist…is a problem."
"And why is that?" Felix asks, conversationally. He's even, as he speaks, reaching slowly into a coat pocket for the pewter cigarette case that resides there, rather than the gun that's riding under his arm. All the better to light himself a plain cigarette. Not one of the usual expensive black and gold ones. "Stay out of my way, Deckard, and I'll happily stay out of yours."
Deckard's eyes tick down to follow the motion of hand to pocket and stay there, watching the outward progression of finger bones and case without comment. He's quiet through the lighting up process too, glasses bouncing the sputtering spark of the lighter back at its owner without feeling. He just stands there. And is clearly angry, though about what exactly, he seems to be having a hard time dictating.
Fel doesn't needle him. He merely waits, expectantly, and then proffers a cigarette from the case. "Talk to me, Deckard," he says, finally, and his tone is almost amiable. "I'm not out to make your life miserable. I'm not out to get up in your business, unless your business is supporting terrorists. The weapons dealing…." He shrugs, insouciantly. "Not one of my problems."
"Fuck you." Simple, succinct, applicable in most every conversation with any kind of cop ever. Deckard's brow furrows again, a bristle visible in the way he tenses up at mention of supporting terrorists, or any other guesses at what he might be up to. "As best as I can tell you're practically in bed with one, you piece of shit. You sat in on an operation that undercut every retarded thing you stand for and got a fucking medal for it. That you come here at all is like asking a favor for me to not fuck you over and I don't owe you a goddamn thing."
"I sat in on an operation that saved untold fucking numbers of lives and got a medal I didn't deserve because I have a superior with a perverse sense of humor." There's only the barest flicker at the 'practically in bed with' comment. "What should I've done. Waited for the government to get its head wholly out of its ass when it comes to Evolved, and let Kazimir and his buddies start a little genocide here? I'm not Homesec, Deckard," he says, voice dropping into an impatient hiss. "I'm not the enforcer for the stupid little card laws - I didn't fucking sign up to be the equivalent of a genetic meter maid. Teo and his allies had the information, and had the will to move. You think I didn't try and kick down every door in the Bureau and the Department to get some real fucking help? What were -you- doing there, then, at that little meeting? You owe me your fucking life, is what you owe me. You didn't die writhing under Volken's tender ministrations."
"Teo and his allies are terrorists. You pick and choose, Ivanov," the name barely makes it out through Deckard's teeth at all, they're so tightly clenched, and the twitch that scuffs him half an inch closer after the question of what he was doing there broadcasts a deep-seated need to beat the shit out of this guy that his brain keeps having to remind him he can't fulfill. Not right now, not tonight. "You aren't Homesec, but you aren't fucking FBI either. You're a vigilante, no better than the rest of them. A charade. A double agent. Whose side are you on? The one that seems less idiotic at any given second? How the fuck does anyone trust you with anything more important than taking out the trash? You weren't even there."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It's the oldest cliche in human politics. There's no use in dragging in the minnows if all it does is let the sharks go free," Felix says, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. "I'm a federal agent," he insists, voice a growl. "My job is to protect and serve, same as it ever was. If playing nice with Teo and his little mutant commune let us bring down monsters like Volken, then that's what we do. What're you getting at, Deckard? Why take offense at my supposed hypocrisy? I never pretended to be a real white hat. And again, what were -you- doing there?"
"Saving the fucking world and nearly getting killed right along with everyone else. Good news, though! Thanks to your old buddies in the crime lab I'm a wanted criminal, so I don't lose my job if I break a thousand laws doing it." Deckard's not buying it, and he's sure as hell not relaxing any. Keeping his voice down is an ongoing struggle — a couple've heads might have turned on that last one, closer by. "Why bother with the badge at all?"
"Because, no matter what you might think, I'm not a vigilante," Felix says, with a slow exhale that lets smoke drift away on the wind. "Let me know about that, and I'll see what I can do to clear you," he adds, ashing off to one side, lest it be blown on them both.
"It's not a matter of what I think. I didn't invent the definition." More snide there than anything, Deckard takes a step back and away, already turning to leave. "If you really believe in justice, you won't bother. See you in Hell, Felix."
That self-righteousness has to be the most infuriating thing about him. Because Fel doesn't flinch, not at that comment, anyway. He just watches Deckard go, still wearing that puzzled frown.
Deckard is still angry as he walks away, and for a while after. If Felix watches long enough, he'll likely see another fight get picked some distance down the docks. This one with someone who doesn't have super speed powers.
 February 16th: The Kidnapping Magnet |
 February 16th: Seeker |