Present And Future Heroics


devon2_icon.gif kincaid_icon.gif

Scene Title Present and Future Heroics
Synopsis Each has their own version of how to be a hero. Devon showed his in a future that may not come to pass, and Kincaid's, though subtle, was no less meaningful.
Date September 30, 2011

Studio K : Kincaid's Office

Since the last time the young man stepped inside, the Studio has changed. Under new management. Or producers. Kincaid's technical title has changed, becoming less an assistant and more of an actual voice in the company. It doesn't show in changes to the building itself, but there's certainly far more activity. People actually know who Devon asks about, rather than giving vague directions.

They know where he is. And what he's doing.

The main physical change would be the room that Devon is directed to.

Kincaid has a much bigger office. Not as big as some, but definitely a change from his old one.

The door is opened, with a brand new painted sign, and the young man is pacing around with a cordless phone. "…need to get together with him and get him back on the air. …No, I know that. Just get him on the phone." The phone is turned off with a small sigh, and he doesn't notice the door has been opened more.

There's a lot of pictures along the walls. Of Kristen. Of Russo. Of various past guests on the show— including the boy's mother. If he can't reasonably display family pictures, he can subtly do so.

It feels odd to be back inside the walls of Studio K. Weirder still to not be tugging at a tie or messing with shirtsleeves and jackets, instead comfortable in jeans and a hoodie. But Devon isn't unknown, and slipping into the press of people wasn't too difficult. Nods were given to a few familiar faces, pleasantries exchanged as he was directed to Kincaid's office.

"You're moving up in the world," the teen states, once Kincaid's conversation seems to have ended. The door is pushed aside just far enough to allow his head to poke in, brows arched in approval of the room and its decor.

"I'd say that Kristen played a cruel joke on me leaving me so much of the company… I've never run anything like this." Kincaid says with a sigh, shaking his head a bit as he gestures the boy inside the room. "Close the door so we can talk. I'd been hoping you'd stop by sometime soon."

There's a lot he didn't know, and that included whether the boy was in any position to be contacted safely.

His mother isn't, or he would have called her many times, likely.

"I have a new phone number, for if you have an emergency. Not connected to the company. I'd been meaning to give it to you. To give to people." His mother, hopefully.

"Sounds like Miss Reynolds stayed the same, even from beyond." Devon steps into the office proper, pushing the door closed behind him. "I'd planned to come by sooner but…" He half grins. It's a half grimace as well, one hand lifted in display, fingers thrust out from plaster that travels down his arm beneath the sleeve of his hoodie. "Been kind of a rough couple of weeks." A shrug follows, hand dropped back to his side.

The boy nods, understanding the unspoken request. "Sure. That'd be good." Though he hasn't seen Melissa in a while, a couple of weeks after he took her to the safe house she left, gone into hiding with Perry he assumes. He glances around the office again, before turning his attention onto Kincaid. "I haven't got a permanent line yet, just the throw aways. Once I get one though, I'll make sure you have it. Just… it'll be a little while yet."

"It's fine. I wasn't expecting to be stuck with responsibilities… but it seems I fell into some," Kincaid says with a sheepish expression. He's not really ashamed of his work, but he did lie to get the job. He'd not gotten the schooling he said.

Not beyond a year or two of high school. Everything else was learning from others who knew things… And learning from life. Not exactly the preperation to handle an actual company. But at least he's good at getting other people to do what they were hired for.

"I can be found here for a while, if it's a legit line. I'll work up a code, too. So if it isn't legit you can send me a message through the call in that no one will recognize."

"You're good at what you do." Devon grins, leaning against the door. "Makes sense that you're in charge here. Better here anyway, than stuck in a squatter's hovel or worse. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss working here, but better I stay gone than bring the whole studio down because of my activities." And associations. The perils of rebelling against the government.

He pauses, brows drawing together for a moment, arms folding over his chest. "How've you been otherwise? Besides the management stuff?"

"Alive," Kincaid responds in simple words. "Alive and free." Two things he learned were very important at far too young an age. One more important than the other, but he's trying not to think too much about that. Or the moments when he learned it.

"I— you can sit if you want. I have coffee brewed too," he says, scratching at the short hairs on the back of his head as he looks around, seeming younger than he actually is.

Dropping his gaze, Devon stares at the chairs within the office space for a moment. "Yeah," he agrees, tone taking on that quiet, sort of distant quality. His head shakes slightly, but he moves from the door to sit in a chair. Elbows rest against his thighs, fingers of one hand covering the other.

"It was really bad," the boy says after a lengthy pause. His head lifts a little, looking up at Kincaid. His mouth opens to say more, the words stalling before forming. After a couple of seconds he grins, though the expression lacks in true happiness. "Makes seeing you here, thinking back when I worked here, both good and kind've strange." And gives him some understanding how Kincaid's parents felt.

Something about that makes him tilt his head to the side as he glances around. Kincaid hesitates for a time, using that time to pour the coffee into one of the cups that Melissa gave him for his birthday and passing it over, in it's full Hawaiian tourist glory. The coffee even has a flavor that was part of his birthday present.

"Did you have a dream?" he asks bluntly, perhaps having taken that from what was said. And the way the teenager is looking at him. It is different from how he looked when he knew. Different from how he looked before he knew.

Taking the cup, Devon nods. "Here I thought I was immune to them, or… I don't know." He sits back, fingers curling around the handle of the mug. He continues to look up at Kincaid, a small frown pulling at his expression. The dream had left him more shaken than anything he'd experienced before, a lingering shadow of that fear still hinted in his expression.

"I should take some kind of morbid victory," Devon resumes, looking at the coffee filling the mug in his hands. That grin curls up again, still lacking in mirth. "I… disabled one of the robots in Midtown." One of the smaller ones, but still one of the robots. It also goes unmentioned that he still has it, hidden away at the safehouse.

"Too bad no one can disable all of them," Kincaid says with a shake of his head as he turns back to pour a drink of coffee for himself. In another Hawaiian themed cup. He has four of them all together, from the neat line of cups over on the side. He always has spares. For himself, for his guests.

"I never thought you'd be immune… I was just the only one who knew you. It wasn't a top priority. And… not a good memory either. Any of it." None of the time he knew the man who this teen could still become was good… Except the friendship itself. Under terrible conditions. The attention to his coffee allows him to avoid eye contact as he continutes, "You were one of the only things that kept me alive in there. You kept a lot of people alive. I only knew you for a year, but… you were the best friend I ever had. I hope you never end up in a place like that again."

It wasn't a good memory, that much is agreed on. At least, what Devon learned of it wasn't good. He's quiet for a while, thumbs rubbing over the lip of the mug. He takes a long drink from the mug in his hands, filling the space with the bitter heat of the drink, maybe hoping the taste would dilute the effect of the dream.

"I don't plan to end up in anything like that." Probably not something he'd planned for in his future self's history either. Devon looks up at Kincaid. "I can't even imagine what that would've been like, if roles were reversed." He might have a good idea, drawing on his own past experiences. "I'm sorry I… never outgrew the need to play hero. Not that I regret it, not there."

"Never apologize for being heroic," Kincaid says, completely serious as he looks up at the younger man. Younger than he remembered him, but already as old in the eyes in many ways. He'd seen it months ago. He'd hoped to avoid that so quickly, too.

They haven't changed much for the better, sadly enough.

"You are heroic, and there's nothing wrong with that. You died helping people… and we buried you on free ground." Where he could visit the grave, even. "If you don't mind me asking, what are you planning on doing?"

Devon grins, more true, as he's told not to apologize for his heroics. If Liz could hear those words, he might find himself being grounded indefinitely. He shakes his head a little, shoulders shrugging. After a few seconds his smile turns more sad, shrug deepening. "It's… weird to think about." Being dead, after dreaming about it, has bothered him more than normal. "I'd do it again, you know. Differently. But I'd get people out anyway."

He sips at his coffee again, leaning forward a little in his chair. "I'm… going to leave the city for a while. Leave contact information so I can be called back when the need comes up. I'm… going with my friends. Since most of us are… likely to be watched for, need to get out and regroup."

"I'll be sorry to see you go," Kincaid mentions honestly, even if there's a hint of a hesitation to it despite that. "You should go, though— you and many others. This is not a safe city to be in. If you need some money I can liquidate a few assets— put some purchases on the books that are inflated and get the rest of that cash to you and your friends."

He would never suggest fraud for anyone else, most likely. "It won't be much, I don't want to bring the whole place under threat…" Or himself. "But I can give you something."

In fact… he starts to move toward his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a lock box. He can fudge the paper work later to make the money disappear into financial.

"I'll be back," Devon offers, trying to sound hopeful. He plans on returning, one day, to pick up the fight if it's still needed or to return to living normally if the war has been won when that day comes. His grin turns to surprise at the older man's suggestion. "I can't ask you to do that, Kincaid," he says slowly, head shaking. "I can't… you shouldn't put yourself at any more risk than you already have."

"Remember that heroic thing? You did it your way… this is mine," Kincaid says as he unlocks the box with a key from his keychain and pulls out a pouch that is zipped closed. He opens it to quickly skim the money that's in it, knowing full well that it's less tracable than most things. He's a little paranoid about the government as it is, and keeps more things in cash than most people.

It's zipped back up and held out in it's entirety. "It won't take more than a few days to make it disappear into paper work, and it'll be of far more use to you than it will be here in the station. Take it."

"Kincaid." The protest is short lived. At least vocally. It still lives in his expression, the way his brows draw together in a mix of worry and sadness. The mug is placed on the desk in exchange for the bag, Devon's lips pressing together even as his fingers take up the weight of the pouch. "..Thank you. I'll figure out a way to repay… If this comes back and you wind up in Eltingville or worse, I'll figure out how to time travel so I can save your ass again."

There's a sudden laugh at the very idea. "Don't worry— I have contengency plans," Kincaid says, though he certainly won't share them. E-ville is the last place he ever wants to go, much less be forced to live. It's too close to what he grew up in. "Leave the time travel to the professionals." That part is a joke, with a grin.

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