Participants:
| Scene Title | PR Talk |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Meeting the potential neighbours, Ziadie discovers one who seems to know at least a little about him. Not enough to know not to lie, though. |
| Date | June 4, 2011 |
Ziadie spent the morning looking at an apartment at Le Rivage, and asking numerous, numerous questions, but now he's simply sitting down on the wall that borders one of the planters in front of the building and half-leaning back on the bushes. Considering whether moving is really something that he wants to do, but also keeping an eye out and watching people come in and out, occasionally pausing and having conversation. If he's going to actually go through with what feels to the retired police officer as a truly mad suggestion, he wants to meet the neighbours, get to know people. Though perhaps it will be a while before he ever becomes comfortable here like he is in Harlem and in El Barrio, but that is a question of where the years have taken him, more than anything else, and eventually, there's actually even a faint smile on the old black man's face.
Le Rivage seems to be the best place for a retired police officer, or the least; a good number of rooms are rented out at present to those that serve in an official capacity, cops and Federals, from the types that flow in and out and pause to politely answer the inquiries of the man with the 'medal chest'. Some civilians could be picked out of the crowd, but not many. It's not officially the Fed & Cop bunkhouse, but no doubt someone is getting a nice kickback for referrals.
Coming around the corner looks to be another of the former, straight-backed and proud stride, crisp black suit, dark shades, the works; Moriarti. From his glance up towards the building as he approaches, and a pair of bags from Crate & Barrel in his hands, this one looks to be another tenant.
There have even been one or two people that Ziadie knows from his long career in and amongst the crowd. Thirty-five years is a long career, longer than many, and it's been a pleasant enough morning spent overall, twice even finding out that people he hasn't seen since before the Bomb are still alive and well enough. The man approaching is not someone that Ziadie recognises or knows, but that doesn't stop him from ducking a polite nod and attempting to engage in conversation. "Morning." Age has weathered Nocturne Ziadie's face, but there is no hint of dullness of age in the gaze or the greeting, overall. "How goes?"
Luckily, or unluckily, Moriarti's not really an East Coast fellow; at least not until lately. So not a familiar face, but a familiar enough look about him. The more-than-likely Fed slows slightly as Ziadie dips a nod his way; Moriarti's gaze noticably flicks about for a moment. New York City has gotten close enough to normal where the man doesn't immediately acknowledge a random greeting as directed to him.
A dip of his head forward; a nod in greeting, and the sunglasses slip down Moriarti's nose slightly, baring grey eyes to regard the older man. "Good morning…" comes his response, more or less automatic once he realizes that he's the one being addressed. Lean shoulders bob under the pressed suitjacket, "Well enough, all in all…" Moriarti answers.
The entire East Coast abruptness, despite the entirety of his adult life being spent in New York, is not something that Ziadie has ever picked up. At heart, the man is still very much Jamaican, with the social norms that come from the culture he grew up in, although it the island hint in his accent is barely noticeable. "Good." Head tilts towards the building. "You live here?" he asks. "I figure I better get t' know some of th' neighbours," he explains. "Old cops make enemies, I prefer a' know the lay of things."
If Moriarti picks up on the island lilt to Ziadie's accent, he doesn't knowledge it. Truthfully, the man was never one to note accents, for various reason; is own is definately 'not from around here,' missing the clipped tones and the Joisey drawl. When Ziadie poses another question, Moriarti's head lifts, regarding the building above and behind. "Indeed, I do." comes the reply; a safe enough response, he figures, as Ziadie doesn't strike him as familiar anywhere in his memories, and Moriarti hasn't exactly made any sort of impact in the news on this coast, yet.
Then there's a faint smile that plays across Ziadie's face. "Well then," Ziadie says. "Nocturne Ziadie. I'm moving in, a few weeks or so. A couple of folks wanted me a live closer than all by myself out in Harlem, so." The old man has been living alone, but the tone of his voice suggests that at least as far as he cares, he is one humouring them rather than the other way around. But Ziadie also likes to tell stories, likes to talk if he gets the chance to, maybe because he doesn't get the chance to as often anymore. The name is one that's made the news occasionally, first in the seventies and eighties, and then more recently as well. "Pleased to meet you."
From the look about him, Moriarti is politely listening to the other man. Paying attention, keeping eye contact when Ziadie's gaze might come back to bear on him. The proper way to carry on a conversation, at least in the last century. But once Ziadie introduces himself, all of Moriarti's attention comes to bear on the old black man. Like he recognized the man's name.
Bags are shifted about to free up Moriarti's right hand, which is soon extended out towards Ziadie. "Thomas Moriarti…" he says by way of introduction, before proceeding into his own line of questioning, "…Ziadie… you were involved in that incident a few months back, an incident with a telekinetic Evolved, weren't you?"
For once it seems like the 'you saw the news' look isn't going to earn a lecture from the old man; proper manners impress him, amongst other things, too few people have any decent amount of respect when having a conversation, and the few people Ziadie did associate with now are for the most part gone. Instead, Ziadie simply nods after returning the handshake. His grip is another thing that's seemingly unaffected by age, at least at the moment.
"Yes, and it was a pain in the ass of paperwork, but." There's a pause as Ziadie brings both hands to rest on the cane in front of him, mid-chest level. "He had a gun, and no clue how to use it, and a hostage, so such is th' way of th' world. I'm retired, actually, have been since 2003."
"A horrible thing, having to actually shoot someone." Moriarti replies, with the ring of commisseration and a hint of that buzz of a slight lie. "..especially an Evolved, with things are how they are today." So a bit of commiseration on a necessary evil. The well-dressed man shifts the bags back to his right hand, before setting them down on the low wall; since the conversation is more than a passing greeting, no sense in standing about holding stuff.
A slight nod from Moriarti as he brushes his hands down the front of his jacket, "Yes, I'd seen that on the news." Working with the DoEA, even out on the West Coast, no doubt that incident caught his attention. Of course, the identity of the unidentified woman coming to his attention once he got into the NYC office helped keep Ziadie's name in the front of his mind.
"Caused a bit of a stir even out in San Diego, a few Evolved walking into the office, claiming to be in a similar situation. No repeat scenarios, though, thankfully." Moriarti says.
An eyebrow raises in response to the very first statement, as if something might be slightly off about Moriarti's words, but perhaps more diplomatically than usual, Ziadie doesn't say anything. "I was an officer for thirty-five years," he reminds the younger man. "I been in many stand-offs far worse than that one, although the politics no help any o' it any. Worked an' brought down a large portion of th' Mafia, in th' early eighties, now that was a situation." There's no true attempts to pull his speech into the more educated patterns, Ziadie makes himself clear enough in any way. "It was a bit where I got people askin' me on th' street if I did it jus' because he was Evolved. Idiots, really."
No mention of his own Evolved status, yet, nor mention of his ability. Curiosity, more, makes the former officer want to know if Moriarti will lie again, if given the chance, and no one lies once they actually know his ability. Once they know, in the old man's experience, they just get uncomfortable, and go away, or are scrupulously honest and don't care. Then there's a shrug, and Ziadie falls silent a moment, then adding, "I'd have rather it no' make th' news at all. But that's th' world fer you."
A mention of Evolved bringing their grievances to his office, with no explanation as to what office Moriarti might have worked in, too. Moriarti's attention remains politely focused on Ziadie, his expression perfectly neutral. He does take on a more relaxed stance as the conversation continues, arms shifting, hands clasping behind his back. If Ziadie's shift in speech patterns bothers the suited man, it doesn't show.
"Either way, having to end the situation with a shooting is never a good end to it." Moriarti replies, bringing that same buzz of falsehood. But then again, with an unknown history to this relative stranger, it's probably just the conversation remaining polite. One doesn't necessarily agree with the shooting of another human being in proper conversation. Usually.
"It did end up with a couple of cases getting investigated, and a couple of shop owners getting their licenses suspended for discrimination, so I suppose something good did come from that hitting the news, reminding some people that there are other choices." Moriarti says, that buzz fading. All truth, even if it's vague, unexplained truth.
Ziadie's brows furrow a little. There's a brief pause, as he tries to work through where the other man could be working, and another furrow of his brows as the former police officer reminds himself that talking to spooks almost always involves some degrees of falsehood, and that he may as well not show the headache that it causes him.
"I'm glad some good came of it, then," he responds. "Some good comes of everything, eventually." The statement is said more with the air of reminding himself of something, wisdom that he may sometimes forget. "So. Ye know I'm formerly with th' force, but where are you with?"
Still polite as ever, Moriarti reaches up to adjust the dark sunglasses resting across the bridge of his nose, pushing the glasses back up as he listens to Ziadie's response. His chin dips in a nod of agreement with the older man's comment on good things coming to those who wait, or a similar enough situation.
And then the question is posed, and Moriarti's response is a moment coming. Well, the old man is formerly with the police, and it's not like this is a secret department or anything… "Department of Evolved Affairs." Moriarti answers truthfully. "…recently assigned here to the City." ..which would explain Evolved bringing their problems to this man, in some fashion.
The former officer gives a nod. "Fair 'nough. There's some good people there." Ziadie is willing to give the spook some credit, apparently, and there is a wide, toothy grin that shows the wear of age and perhaps some times that were not so good on the old man's face. "An' how are you findin' our beautiful city?" A pause, and a wince, because of the perhaps lack of truth in his own statement. "Well, once-beautiful. You know, New York City was th' land of promise and good, when I was a boy. Where they let a black man on the police force. Times've changed."
Another nod of agreement from Moriarti, more than likely on Ziadie's assessment of the DoEA. At the topic shifting to the City itself, the agent's attention drifts from the old, grinning black man, on to their general surroundings. "Yes, Once beautiful…" Moriarti repeats as he glances around, his attention drifting in the direction of Midtown, and the destruction that sits like a black spot on the Big Apple.
"Oh, I know…" Moriarti replies as his attention returns to Ziadie, "…I used to live here, back in oh-four, before the Bomb. Managed to stay away until the Department decided to reassign me back out here…" he finishes, his attention drifting away once more. Too many bad memories, perhaps.
"Ah," comes the acknowledgement from Ziadie. "I'm sorry, then. I've only been back in th' city since January," he continues. "I left, myself, when I retired, came back for a variety of reasons, but. She was a beautiful city, once …" Before so many of his comrades were killed in the bomb, in the aftermath thereof. Before a lot of things. Ziadie's gaze also goes towards where there was once a city skyline, for a moment, and then there is a shrug.
"No reason to be sorry. I've barely been in town a month yet, still adjusting…" Moriarti replies, giving a shrug of his own as his attention returns to the present, from whatever trip down memory lane it might have sidetracked down. "…we had our own problems to deal with on the West Coast, never had more than a few seconds to think about what was going on out here."
Back on the here and now, Moriarti moves to lean against the low wall as well, his Crate & Barrel bags serving as the divider between himself and the other man. "But she'll be a beautiful city again. Everything will work out in the end…" he says, with another buzz of false platitudes. But hey, he's a Federal agent, they aren't supposed to be all bleak and 'the sky is falling' with the general public. PR, after all.
"She's lasted through war and strife before, she'll pick herself back up again…" Moriari adds.
The observant person might notice that Ziadie's wince doesn't actually come after the words, but during the words that ring more false than true, though he hides it by reaching up from where he'd gripped the cane to rub his face, squinting due to the sun. "Your PR talk isn't bad," the old man says, after a moment. "Though you'd be better advised to know it don't usually work on cops, in case you missed the memo or somethin'. We see the world every day. We know better." And it's a narrow disguising of his ability coming into play, but decently done.
Moriarti's brow lifts slightly at Ziadie's comment, before he responds with a bit of a light chuckle. PR Talk. A hand comes up, rubbing at the back of his neck; almost sheepishly. Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but it gives him a moment to think. "Sorry, force of habit…" he begins to explain, "…the DoEA had me do the local interviews and the like back home…" the explanation continues, "…so it was generally easier to stay in spin mode when I'm out in public, period." All true.
"Of course, of course." Ziadie acquiesces, easily enough that it might be difficult to guess that the PR talk bothered him for far more than the reason that he gave."It's an understandable habit, but no' necessarily a good one. Too many spooks find themselves spouting company line an' not having their own beliefs, eventually." Ziadie rises to his feet with a faint nod to Moriarti. "It was well nice to meet you, Mr. Moriarti, but I have a long bus ride back to Harlem today, guess I best be goin'. I'm sure I'll see you again, though." There's a way to the delivery of the words, though, that Ziadie's excusing himself before something happens. At the least, before his ability asserts itself and becomes impossible to ignore.