Participants:
| Scene Title | Pronouns |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Felix and Flint try to squeeze information out of each other over a bottle of whiskey in a hotel bar. |
| Date | October 31, 2008 |
Random Hotel Bar
Fel is….not at home, oddly enough. But he does answer his cellphone promptly. And the meeting he arranges is in one of those overpriced bars so common to mid-range hotels that cater to business travellers. The Fed himself is waiting at a table, impeccably dressed as ever, but pale and drawn. Pained, in fact.
The fact that Flint is moving a little more stiffly than usual makes them a fine pair, then. He winces when he shoulders in through the door, then lets it swing shut on the woman coming in behind him. Whups. Straight to the bar he goes, past Felix's table to put in an order for whiskey. As in, the entire bottle. Also, a glass with ice in it. And one of those little umbrellas. …They don't have umbrellas. Fine, then, without the umbrella. Back to the table he goes, thumping the glass down, then the bottle. Then himself. He does not say, 'Hi.'
The Fed's voice remains polished, urbane, as he looks up from his cellphone to arch a brow at Deckard. "How generous of you," he observes, in those flat, accentless tones. "Though generally I prefer a very good vodka." He either hasn't noted or is choosing to ignore the fact that there's only one glass. A gesture at one of the waiters has him bringing both a clean, empty glass, and a shot of vodka.
"Isn't drinking on the clock against the rules or something?" Flint speaks as he pours, the bottle cap dropped lazily aside onto his napkin. He'll put it back. Later. "What's with the hotel? Seeing a hooker?"
"This isn't considered on the clock. And no," Felix says, the only sign of his annoyance a certain sleepy droop to his eyelids. "You called me. I assume you had a reason other than the pleasure of my company?" His tone has gone arch, and he tucks the cellphone away, having apparently silenced it.
Deckard doesn't reply immediately. Immune to annoyed looks and arch tones, he finishes pouring, and sips. Apparently satisfied, he takes a longer swallow. His eyes trace across the bar, and then past whatever patrons are around, back to the door. Procrastinating. "I need information."
"I thought it was supposed to work the other way around," Felix says, apparently amused. "But…try me. What is it you want to know?" he wonders, leaning back against the leather of the booth.
"New York City," says Flint, who's already refilling his glass, "is fucking full of crazy people. I mean, I expected business would be good, but wow." He pauses long enough to draw in a long breath, winces again, and downs another round quickly enough that he's out of breath again by the time he's finished it. "Do you even know who all wants to kill who? Because I don't."
The Fed's eyes are still mild, behind his glasses, as he knocks back his vodka, and then pours himself a generous shot of whiskey. "Yes, it is," he says, simply. "The bomb turned the old organized crime structure on its ear, and the Five Families have never really regained their feet. But I just got here after years away, so I'm catching up myself. What precisely are you after?"
"See, that's the funny thing. If I tell you what I think I know, I will probably die. Then you get one packet of incomplete information, and nothing else from me ever again. Because…I'll be dead." Just in case Felix couldn't make the logic connection on his own. Flint eyes him across the table, watching him more closely than he has through any of their previous interactions. "If you tell me what you know, you won't die, but I might survive long enough to actually be useful. These 'evolved' people I keep reading about, with their voodoo powers." Not a complete sentence, but he's speaking quickly, and he pauses to reach for the bottle again after Felix pours himself a shot. "There are bad guys who are them," he ticks off a finger on his free hand, "bad guys who want to know more about them," he ticks off another finger, "and bad guys who want to kill them."
Ever seen a man have an epiphany? There's something like pleased recognition dawning in Felix's face, and his voice goes positively dulcet. "My, you haven't wasted any time, have you?" he says, removing his glasses and polishing them lazily with a napkin. At least he's not using his tie, like a Le Carre character. "Now, in brief - there's a pro-Evolved group of terrorists who call themselves PARIAH. They've committed violent acts in the past, and that's frankly whom I'd hoped you'd find yourself acquainted with. Well, there are many Evolved in New York. YOu've found a group of criminals who limit their membership to the powered? And we're aware of the anti-Evolved terrorists responsible for the killings in the Library, and who claim responsibility for the shooting this afternoon. You've run into them, too?"
Deckard pours. "I just kind of assumed the PARIAH people were acting out of self-interest. I mean, that's usually why most terrorists wind up going all homicidial on everyone's asses, right?" Probably not a serious question, but there's an intensity about him when he thunks the bottle back down. "So far as you're concerned, I haven't 'run into' anyone. A guy picked me up and crushed my insides today without actually touching me. I'm not fucking with that. Tell me why they're trying to kill each other."
"No, generally it's ideology that ends up with the most people dead," Fel says, a touch heavily. "So, you encountered PARIAH? And I don't know, beyond the broad proposition that the anti-Evolved consider everyone with that genetic anomaly a threat to be loaded on to cattle cars and exterminated. Humans -do- that," he says, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Now, did these Evolved want to actually deal with you, or was it a random encounter?"
"I don't know what I encountered. I'm asking you." Annoyance creases in around the set of Flint's jaw, and he tips his glass up without actually drinking from it again. "Even if they are going the route of cattle cars and extermination, it's a little early to be recruiting Sonderkommandos. Isn't it?"
Sometimes nothing is the worst answer of all, and sometimes silence is the loudest answer. "I don't know," he says, quietly. "Now, this anti-Evolved group is operating without government support or recognizance, that I can assure you. But as MAo put it, the guerilla is a fish that swims in the ocean of the people, and we -don't- know how broad their support network is. Why did this man attack you? What was the situation?"
"I've never been a fan of fish." Whatever that means. Flint continues to stare blankly at his glass, energy dulled down a notch or two now that his first two drinks have started to take hold. "The situation is irrelevent. The fact is, Felix, I don't know you well enough to know if you can keep a secret. You strike me as the kind of upstanding federal officer that would happily see me lynched in the name of a greater good."
"If you have contacts with one or more of these terrorists groups, and they trust you enough to deal with you in good faith, you are *worth your weight in gold* to the Bureau," Felix says, slowly, leaning in. "I mean that in all seriousness. And secrets are my stock in trade," He's sipping the whiskey with deliberation, not rushing through it. "We play for bigger stakes than the cops. I'm not going to just reel you in and then turn you upside down and shake you to see what falls out of your pockets, Deckard. You're too small a fish, and I'm beyond that. And we -don't- betray our informants."
"Oh, so you guys are the good cops. Thanks for clearing that up for me. I feel so much better now." If he could literally drip with cynicism, he would. Instead, he's left to give Felix the flattest look he can manage before he starts drinking again, and his eyes flicker back to the bar. "This is fun. We should do it again some time."
"I'm Evolved, but your ribs remain uncrushed," Fel notes, gently, picking up his whiskey. "I'm merely pointing out that we play a longer game than the NYPD, and are more disposed to let the small fry go. No one's breathing down my neck over a quota of collars per month."
"…Seriously?" Earnest surprise lifts at Flint's brows, but they lower again almost immediately, falling somewhere between suspicious and abruptly, intently curious. "Maybe you don't crush ribs. Maybe you breathe fire or fly or have x-ray vision." The corner of his mouth twitches into something like a smirk, and he lifts his glass. "I'm not worried about you arresting me. I'm worried about who your friends are, and who your friend's friends are."
By way of reply, he reaches into his suitjacket, fishes out a worn black leather wallet, and produces a shiny new Evolved ID card, which he sends skittering across the table towards Deckard with an almost contemptuous flick. "How so? Afraid I'm a mole for the pro-Evolved group?"
"I don't know who you are. I don't know who anyone is." The card breaks Flint's train of thought, and he fumbles with it for a second to flip it around where he can actually read what it says. "Cool." He opens his mouth to say something else, but…doesn't. Instead, he tosses the card back so that he can trade it back out for the whiskey bottle. "I like you, Mr. Ivanov. But you're going to have to live with what I think I can live with."
Felix vanishes it again in one smooth motion, like a stage magician. "Of course," he says, easily. "We're not asking that you take any undue risks." He takes another sip of the whiskey, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing it.
"I think getting drunk with you in a public bar and talking about this probably qualifies as an undue risk." Skeptical again, Flint slumps gingerly into the back of his chair. "PARIAH isn't the only bunch of monkeys out there using people like us. Maybe you already knew that. I don't know. But that's all I can say."
Us? That didn't get missed, but Fel doesn't comment. "Entirely possible," Fel says, quietly. "And I know. There are Evolved of terrifying offensive power," he murmurs. "I've met my share."
The lack of comment isn't missed either. Flint looks up as if to check and see if he caught it at all, only to reach for the long-forgotten bottle cap. "You can write this off as a business expense, right?"
Fel's smile is conspiratorial. "I can," he says, gently shoving the bottle towards him. His own whiskey remains half-full - he's really been nursing it.
"Super." Flint leans forward enough to collect the bottle so that he can screw the cap on, and scratches the back of his head. "If that's all, then, I'm gonna go get some sleep. And advil. Hey. Can you get me one of those little badges like pilots give kids on airplanes sometimes that says, 'Honorary FBI superstar' or something? That would be awesome."
"If you die I can get you a nameless star on the wall at Quantico," Felix offers. "Sleep well," He settles back in the booth, apparently inclined to nurse his whiskey and meditate, rather than flee to the comfort of that generic bed upstairs.
"You should draw a smiley face on it. That way people'll know it's mine." Because he's so smiley. The bottle is dragged off the table as Flint pushes to his feet, and thumped against the chair when he starts back for the door. His coordination is lacking. "Night."
"You going to need a cab?" Felix wonders. Informant dies drunk in car-wreck. That'll look beautiful on his Bureau record.
"I'll get a cab. But I'm writing up an invoice if my car gets towed." Clonk, into the door he goes. Pull, not push. Maybe that's the problem. He backs up, takes a moment, and figures it out. Then he's on his way out for real.
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