Outlook Not So Good


cardinal_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Outlook Not So Good
Synopsis Cardinal checks in with Deckard to make sure he's on board. Deckard — is on the boat, apparently, even if he's not sure why there's a boat to be on.
Date July 15, 2009

Staten Island: Coast

It's a nice day outside. No, really. It is. Even on Staten Island, where a pair of used needles rattle around in a coffee cup scuffling its way busily down the street laid out parallel with the seawall. The sun is shining. It's 80 degrees out, with a cool, salty breeze to skirt whatever humidity lingers around the beach in the wake of a recent shower.

Deckard is in dark jeans and a white dress shirt, only half buttoned over the less white undershirt that lies beneath. A small pile of unspent fireworks occupies a cardboard box in the sand to his right; assorted papery garbage litters the sand to his left. In his lap on the rusty lawn chair he's occupying, a brown paper lunch back sits open under the sifting flow of black powder he's just pried his knife into stirring out of a brilliant red wad of paper and cardboard and unspent fuse.

"Okay, now that, that is pathetic, old man…" The words have no edge, though, just wry amusement as Richard Cardinal's booted feet leave subtle imprints in the sands of the beach towards the man in question, urban bdu pants matching an old army jacket he's wearing over a black tee-shirt. It's probably hot as hell with that jacket, but even here he doesn't want to have his gun out in the open! "You're digging out gunpowder from fireworks, now? Don't you have contacts for that sort've thing?"

"I'm forty-two," is Deckard's stock response for accusations of fossilization, narrow jaw locked into a grim set while he focuses on keeping that trembling skitter of black particles centered on the bag and not, say…onto is pants. Two shakes and a squint later, he drops the emptied shell off into the tatty assortment to his left and turns his head enough to lift a brow at Cardinal before he reaches down the for the next one.

"It's a hobby."

"I suppose there's worse." At the admission, Cardinal stops nearby; turning a bit to look out to the water for a moment before turning his gaze back to the other man, a faint smile quirking to his lips, "Glad t'hear that you survived Arthur's little tantrum. I was worried, 'till Eileen mentioned you."

For all that Deckard's put himself through the trouble of dragging a chair and a box load of fireworks out onto the beach, he doesn't seem overly interested in the slog of brown water up over muddy sand and rotten wood. Granted, he manages to make himself even less interested in looking at Cardinal once mention of what happened at the Lighthouse is made. The hatchet struck angles of his face turn down; his jaw hollows even further beneath its protective bristle. The knife point nicks its way in past bright wrapping and twists, "Still here," confirmed at a mutter that makes it sound like he isn't overly thrilled about it.

"Yeah. You're here… Brian's here… most've the kids were evacuated, at least," Cardinal says, mostly to himself, his voice tired as he looks out to the waters for a few long moments more. Then he turns back, stepping over with a slow tread through the dirty sands towards the other man. He watches the man's expression for a bit, then asks, "Eileen says you're headin' in with her group?"

He's here, the kids are here. Flint already knew that much. It's Brian's name rather than the question about Eileen's group that picks Deckard's eyes up off the papery rasp of the firecracker in his left hand, stark blue and almost suspicious. Measuring at the very least, flat after the nature of a stray dog trying to suss rat poison out of an easy meal.

There's a definite pause, but there are no question marks to accompany it, and sooner than it feels like it is, he looks down to go back to his arts and crafts session. Scrape, scrape, scrape. "Sounds like that's the way it's going to go."

"Good." It's simple affirmation, appreciation, though not further belaboured. One doubts the other man would particularly appreciate it in any case. Richard brings a hand up to rub against the side of his face, "Fucked up situation, but…" He trails off, asking then, "How's Abigail?"

"Incomprehensible," says Deckard of Abigail, back to a dead air mutter. The firework he's currently working his way through is apparently as or more unmanageable, as he drops it aside without cracking through so that he can sit back in his chair. The ridge of his spine stretched against the sun-stiffened canvas back, he folds his knife closed with a sweep of his thumb, tosses his bag of powder aside and looks Cardinal over more directly. "You don't seem overly enthusiastic."

At the comment, Cardinal smiles faintly. It doesn't reach his eyes. A breath's drawn in slowly, then exhales in a hiss of air as he looks down towards the ground— or his right hand, fingers curling closed, then opening again, skin still lightly pink, unscarred and uncallused. "That's because I know too much've what's going to happen," he replies quietly. After a moment, he notes, "Shot Edward Ray the other night. He killed Isabelle."

For the second time in five minutes, Deckard fails to catch himself looking at Cardinal like he isn't sure he's heard right or — isn't sure either of them is actually here. Even in the absence of x-ray vision, he manages to have a hell of a stare. Cold anger frosts and splinters into the chill blue of his eyes, irrational and difficult to decipher for that. It takes him a minute to remember to breathe so that he can say something. Unfortunately, for all that he manages a normal tone of voice and an unreadable expression, he sort of sells himself out with the whole, "Was it quick or did he suffer?" thing.

"It was faster'n I would've liked." There's a flat tone to Cardinal's voice, his hand curling into a fist as his jaw's muscles tighten; glancing up, then, eyes hard as he says quietly, "'Course, he wouldn't be the first person who crawled out've the Hudson after he'd had a few bullets put in him, but, I'm hoping he's down for the count. Hit him center mass. Had to move quick before he calculated what I was planning, the sonuvabitch."

Wouldn't be the first. Probably wouldn't be the last. Deckard turns the folded knife over in his hand once, then flips it back, eyes belatedly breaking off to track elsewhere across the beach when he depresses the switch and…unhelpfully says nothing.

"Anyway." As he looks away, so does Richard, off across the beach. "Just wanted to make sure you were with us. It's a trap, 'course, so we're probably all gonna die, but what the fuck else is new?"

Brows tipped up in vague acknowledgement of the way death has a tendency to loom tangibly over all or most of the names that have been associated with this thing so far, Deckard blunts the knife down into the arm of his chair on his way to folding it back over again. Blandly unbothered. Definitely less bothered by the promise of imminent death than he was by Edward already having reached his expiration date. "I dunno. V'you talked to Eileen?"

A faint sound of affirmation stirs in the thief's throat, and he glances back sideways towards Deckard. "Yeah. Briefly. Says she's got some 'King of Swords' guy that she's working with, though I don't know 'im. Also, Holden." A hint of distaste, there. "Suppose he makes good expetible firepower."

"Yeah." The blade barely gets locked back into the grip before Deckard's triggered it out again, smudged metal scuffing carefully over the back of his free hand so that he can inspect the cutting edge for fine hairs a few seconds later. If there are any, the breeze is apparently enough to see them off before his forty year old eyes can bring them into focus. "Sounds like she knows what she's doing."

"Let's hope so." Cardinal scratches under the curve of his jaw, he could use a shave. After a few moments, he turns to head across the beach, grains of sand crunching under his boots. "Anyway. I've got to get back to the mainland and meet with people, since I'm apparently in fuckin' charge of strategy and shit."

There are rarely days wherein Deckard could not use a shave. Today is no exception, for all that the relatively tidy trim of his grizzled hair at Raquelle's hand keeps him from looking completely un-salvageable. The glance he spares Cardinal when the younger man mentions heading back inland is fleeting and distracted. So much so that he probably won't be able to forge his way back into his firework cracking once he's gone. The knife has already turned itself back into the arm rest, where it now carves irregular hatching into bleached plastic. Bony knees wide apart, shoulders slouched, Flint doesn't look like he has any intention of abandoning his post despite the way his interest in it has evaporated. "See you around."

An arm lifts, the back of Cardinal's hand waving vaguely back over his shoulder as he heads away, "You too. Watch yourself, old man."

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