Public Relations


cardinal_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Public Relations
Synopsis Cardinal and Deckard sniff each others butts, circle, growl and go their separate ways again.
Date July 5, 2009

Staten Island

The sun is well on its way to setting by the time Flint Deckard has reacquired his missing crutch and slunk off a ways from the dwindling commotion around the soup van and the freshly fed. Having shaken Abby off after some quiet words, he cuts a shoddy figure in his methodical, sore retreat, suit and overcoat hanging at awkward angles off the poke of over-exposed bones. Meanwhile if he was frowning any harder the bottom half of his bristled face might slough right off his skull.

The crowd's dispersing, the van getting ready to finish its circuit and head along back to the airfield. Cardinal steps away from the vehicle while Steve checks in via radio, heading towards the shoddy figure's slouch with hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket and a faint, sardonic smile traced across his lips. As he draws close enough, he says quietly, "Feng Daiyu."

"Gesundheit," says Deckard, less quietly and more sullenly. It's hard to run away with any kind of expediency when you're on crutches. That doesn't keep him from making the effort all the same, but he's getting tired and his progress has slowed even in the last five minutes or so, earning an annoyed twist in the knot of muscle clenched behind his jaw.

That, of course, is what brings Cardinal parallel to the an on his crutches before he matches his pace. "He's not Interpol, you know," he murmurs in quiet, wry tones, "And what the fuck are you doing on crutches, old man?" As usual, arrogant, presumptive, and shameless about both.

Not Interpol. That earns a twitch at the join of brow and the bridge of Deckard's nose and a drag at the heel he was in the process of swinging up into another step. One crutch prods into a stutter stop, weight leaned forward so that he can turn to look Cardinal over with two very clear questions painted into the lines etched out over his forehead: How the hell do you know, and: If he wasn't Interpol, who the fuck was he?

In return he offers a half-assed shrug for the question of his crutches, closed and indifferent. "I shot the Sheriff."

Those unasked questions remain unanswered for the moment as the pair come to a halt, the shadowman's head turning just a bit to regard the one on crutches, the slightest of smiles finding his expression. "You have Abigail's ability," he points out, one brow arching over his customary shades, "Why haven't you fixed whatever the fuck's wrong?"

"Plainly put, because I suck at it, Chef Boyardee. 'The hell do you care?" Irritation lifts and ruffles against both observation and question, carving deep into the fuzzy lines around Deckard's mouth. The up and down glance Cardinal gets in an aside is nearly reproachful. Is there anyone who doesn't know what he has swimming around in his DNA? "If you want something spit it out. If Feng Dong isn't Interpol, I dunno who he is."

"Try praying," Cardinal suggests with a shrug of one shoulder. He might be serious. He might just be fucking with him. The answer may also lie somewhere between those two extremes. A smirk answers the other man's customary aggression, and he says with a shrug, "Military training. Seems like a personal score, honestly, he's planning to kill the guy. Doubt anyone'll miss him." A pause, "He mentioned that you pointed him towards me."

Condescension has honed its way into the glacial crackle and snap of Deckard's glare nearly before Cardinal's finished with the first syllable of his suggestion. Try playing. His nose rankles again, more heartfelt in its annoyance this time, and he settles himself into an unconscious lean away on the brace of his far crutch, like a poorly socialized and ill-tempered dog. If he's just fucking with him, odds are it's working. "His ID looked good to me. I told him Ethan was dead." For no reason that's readily apparent in the bony length of his face. "Didn't tell him about you."

As usual, the icy focus of the other man's gaze has about as much affect on Cardinal as rain does upon a duck's back. "The ID might've been legit," admits the thief with a vague, dismissive lift of one hand, fingers brushing careless through the air before it falls back to his side to curl into a jacket pocket, "He wasn't. Mm. The Wolf's not dead, either."

"I know. I was 'lying.'" Flint pronounces the word carefully, head dipped and eyes squinted around cynical suspicion. Rather as if he suspects Cardinal has forgotten the definition or was never actually familiar with it to begin with. "What the hell's gotten into you, driving donation vans around Staten Island? You going to start mailing out apologies to all the people you've fucked with next? If so you should give me mine in person because I don't have a real address, strictly speaking — "

"It's good public relations." An air of dismissal and the shrug of one shoulder seems to suggest that Cardinal doesn't really care about the whole project, although the fact remains that he's out here today doing it. The thief turns his head a bit to look back to the van, considering it where it idles, "People like soup."

"Public relations for what? You running for King of…Crap Island?" The suggestion comes offhand and on a delay, weak in wit as it is in conviction of curiosity. Deckard's worn out, mind as raked over as the rest of his rickety conformation. "People like hookers and cocaine too. I dunno how many girls you can fit in the back of a van. Realistically." There's a pause, then, helpfully: "Logan might."

A look as dirty as Flint's mind is slanted in his direction over the edge of mirror-faced shades, Cardinal's lips pursing in a tight line. Then he snorts out a sound of almost-humor, and he twists on a heel to turn away. "Maybe I'll ask him," he replies, voice as dry as bone-dust in a crematorium.

Cardinal's dirty look is met with the first semblance of genuine good humor Deckard's managed all evening, unbecoming as it is. He almost smiles! "You were more fun when we were fighting injustice together," addressed to the younger man's turned back, Flint resettles himself wincingly back onto both crutches to start picking his way back off in the direction he was already headed in. "Enjoy your soup."

At the call back to him, that younger man pauses in his step - looking back with a smirk. "I'm not the one who stopped, old man," he casts back at him, "Enjoy your alcohol." The insult proverbially cast to Deckard's feet, Cardinal starts back in the direction of the van, head shaking from side to side.

Fuck you looks have more impact when your eyes burn with unholy light. As things are, the one Deckard levers back over his shoulder as he gimps off into the gathering night is depressingly human. The dig finds its mark and off he goes one three-legged step at a time.

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