Participants:
| Scene Title | Realization |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Elisabeth has good news that turns out to be bad news. Deckard's no longer the lead suspect in a multiple murder case the Vanguard framed him for months ago. …Teo is. |
| Date | June 26, 2009 |
In a time that seems long ago, Greenwich Village was known for its bohemian vibe and culture, the supposed origin of the Beat movement, filled with apartment buildings, corner stores, pathways and even trees. There was a mix of upper class and lower, commercialism meeting a rich culture, and practically speaking, it was largely residential.
Now, it's a pale imitation of what it used to be. There is a sense of territory and foreboding, as if the streets aren't entirely safe to walk. It isn't taken care of, trash from past times and present littering the streets, cars that had been caught in the explosion lie like broken shells on the streets nearest the ground zero. Similarly, the buildings that took the brunt of the explosion are left in varying degrees of disarray. Some are entirely unusable, some have missing walls and partial roofs, and all of the abandoned complexes have been looted, home to squatters and poorer refugees.
As one walks through the Village, the damage becomes less and less obvious. There are stores and bars in service, and apartment buildings legitimately owned and run by landlords. People walk the streets a little freer, but like many places in this scarred city… anything can happen. Some of the damage done to buildings aren't all caused by the explosion from the past - bullet holes and bomb debris can be seen in some surfaces, and there is the distinct impression that Greenwich Village runs itself… whether people like it that way or not.
Lean and clean shaven in sunglasses and a newish looking brown leather jacket, Flint Deckard doesn't resemble his unibomberesque mugshot so much as he resembles a displaced college professor or deadbeat dad kicking around in Greenwich Village in search of trouble — but not too much trouble. Were it not for the way his bones jut like metal struts along sinkhole contours at his collarbones and jaw, he might even be mistaken for an upstanding citizen or something. As things are, the only thing he's likely to be mistaken for is a recently escaped prisoner of war.
Hands in his jacket pockets, he loiters conspicuously at a pre-arranged corner with lifeless stop lights and the burned out cage of what was once a car, bird bones bleached white by scavengers and erosion scattered through the interior.
She almost doesn't recognize him when she spots him. If Elisabeth weren't so familiar with the quirks of Abby's power — and the sheer volume of calories it takes to manage the ability and keep the body from literally eating itself — she absolutely wouldn't have pegged the man she sees with the man she expects to meet. The blonde cop is wearing civvies — scuffed jeans and sneakers, a lightweight hoodie over a short-sleeved top that serves the dual purpose of shielding her arms from the cool air of the late afternoon and hiding the weapon at the back of her waist. She carries a small backpack with her, and she's glad now that it occurred to her to pack it with the contents it carries. "Deckard?" she calls quietly when she gets within about 20 feet. She doesn't want to startle the man when she's close to him.
Flint's head turns sharply at the sound of his name, hawkish in its detached precision and the accompanying bristle at his shoulders. But Elisabeth is familiar — just not as familiar as she should be — and he settles himself with a sideways work at his jaw and a vague nod. Yeah. He's Deckard. "Hey." Hi, hello. There's no animosity or aggression in the way he holds himself, slack shouldered and at ease. "Abby said you wanted to talk to me."
Liz nods slightly and says, "I have a piece of news for you that I thought you'd like to get — figured I could tell you on the phone, or I could kill two birds with one stone and make sure you're eating well enough to sustain yourself. Abby's calorie intake was always sky-high." She pulls the backpack off her shoulder and holds it out. "It's just some food for you… I hope you have a freezer where you are. It's all microwavable," she says quietly. And then she pauses, "Mind if I ask a question? You don't have to answer it if you don't want."
Short shorn hair hardly touched by the wind, it still manages to bristle in an assortment of unlikely directions, lending Deckard a homeless air despite clear efforts made towards neatness and order. The sunglasses make him hard to read, long face devoid of spare feeling through the frown lines worn in around his mouth until the backpack is offered. He reaches out to hook a hand under the strap despite the way aforementioned lines carve in a little bleaker, pack weighed and tested on its way up onto his shoulder. He'll wait at least long enough to get around the corner before he goes prying around inside for bombs and/or tracking devices. "Thanks." Just: Thanks. Low and gravelled and maybe, possibly slightly resentful. Does he look that bad?
He kind of does.
"You can ask. S'it — embarrassing or something?" A brow tilts up, skeptical, probably on the grounds that he hardly knows her.
Elisabeth grins slightly. He doesn't look that bad, but hey… she's not entirely sure how many people's he's healing either. "No," she replies. "It's not embarrassing. It's just a question about a friend. I was hoping you might have seen Cardinal recently — he mentioned that you had healed him up after a run-in with Logan, but I've heard he had a relatively major injury recently, and I figured if you didn't mind, I'd ask you to keep an eye out for him, that's all. You don't have to pass any messages or anything like that." She shrugs. "It's not major."
Still frowning faintly to himself, Deckard shakes his head at the question of whether or not he's seen Cardinal recently, pack shifted over an inch or so when he glances up at someone peering their way out of the broken snarl of a shattered window across the street. Whoever it is fades back out of the sunlight when they're spotted and he zeroes in on Elisabeth, brow knit. "I haven't heard from him since Logan played 'Will it Blend?' with his insides. Abby might've mentioned something when she was drunk, but that was…I dunno. A week ago. Maybe two."
Elisabeth nods slightly. "Apparently he's managed to get his hand cut off," she tells him. More as a warning of what he might see. "In any case, the reason I wanted to talk to you was to let you know that you're not longer a murder suspect. Some things have come to light in that case that clear you of suspicion." She smiles faintly. "Not even really sure if you care one way or the other, but it might make your life a bit simpler that they're not looking to haul you off the streets anymore."
Although generally the type to reply automatically in the off chance that he actually has anything to say, Deckard stares through the black of his glasses, oddly speechless. His mouth opens and hangs open on the bare edge of formulating words, twitchy exposures of teeth and the hood of his brow only conveying so much on their own in the way of staggered bafflement. Evidently, he cares.
"What…" What. Disbelief creases in over his brow, wary and automatic in the sideways way he's taken to looking at her. "What do you mean, some things have come to light? Did someone vouch for me?"
"Something like that?" Elisabeth says, hesitating. "Dunno if you saw the news about the police station in New Jersey…. but the person who did it confessed to the murders." She pauses once more and says, "It's a bizarre situation. He confessed to a slew of things that it's not even possible he did, so you could wind up back on the radar. But for the moment, you're off the hook." She tilts her head. "Do you have someone who can vouch for you? I can put that in the record, if you do."
"It was in the papers. …Vanguard?" Ethan trying to repent, maybe? Doesn't sound right. Still puzzled in a worried kind of way, Deckard looks a little lost. Somehow this was the last thing he was expecting to hear. Now or ever. It takes him a little while to regather himself enough to shake his head at her last question, the hardened angles of his shoulders lifted into a closed shrug while he peers hard at a nearby fire hydrant. "Teo. Others in the Ferry. No one that should have to take the stand and lie about where I was."
Shaking her head, Elisabeth says quietly, "Teo, of all people, is the one who did the cops. He's…. Christ, I don't know… possessed or something." She grimaces. "So I definitely would not use him as a reference."
Click. Click. Click. Pieces fall into place like tumblers turning over in a greased lock, oil slick and soundless, one right after the other. Blue white bars closed off before a familiar skull; the attack on the station in tandem with Teo's grevous wounds; the promise of a better, more streamlined future. Breath caught cold in the pit of his lungs, Deckard looks like he's been mule kicked in the face and isn't sure if he should still be standing. Notably, he doesn't get around to actually trying to say anything this time. Just stares at her.
Elisabeth looks alarmed and steps forward to put a hand out. "Deckard? Flint? Are you okay?" She has no way of knowing what exactly she just said to cause that expression, but it worries her that she just dumped a bombshell on him without realizing it.
"Fine," Deckard lies right out, left hand going out to brush hers aside before she gets too close. The absence of scruff clears the way for a naked transition from private, unsettled disbelief to anger all the way to clench-jawed suppression of everything again in the lines cut stark into his hollow face. Something's wrong. "Is there anyone staying in contact with him?"
The answer is slow in coming. "It's possible," she admits. "I don't know of anyone so far, but I can look into it." She lies pretty damn well. "We've all been given orders to keep our distance and let Helena know if we come in contact with him at all. We don't know what's wrong with him, or what's happened, so we're trying to cover everyone's butts…. even his, assuming he's even still in his own body."
"Great." It's not an enthusiastic 'great.' As far as greats go. If he suspects she's lying, he gives no indication, but he doesn't exactly offer up his own intel to patch over the gaps either, rail rigid through spine and shoulders, bony hands blocked into cagey fists at his sides. "Any more good news?"
Elisabeth grimaces faintly. "Well…. I thought it would be good news," she tells him with a sigh. Some days, passing on information just sucks. "If there is anyone who's got contact, do you … want me to pass anything along? Or.. . have them get in touch with you or something?" she asks.
"No." Not an enthusiastic 'no' either, but a rock solid one. There's iron in Deckard's voice and in the irritation forged subtly into the wiry muscle at his neck. Initially it was great news. Now he looks like he intends to go drown some puppies. "Don't tell him you told me."
A tilt of her head and a questioning look. "Don't tell…. Teo?" Elisabeth clarifies. "Guess that won't be a problem… he's made no move to contact me at all." She doesn't know this man well enough to guess what exactly to say to him. "I'm sorry it wasn't better news?" she offers.
"It's…" It's what? Nose rankled against his own inability to word what he should probably say vaguely and efficiently enough to be to his liking, Deckard frowns hopelessly at her, brows tilted up into a ghost of a shrug that his shoulders refuse to follow up on. "Probably the best news I've heard in months. Just…" His brows fall again, narrow jaw slack until it can cinch itself back into place a few seconds later. "I dunno. Sorry. Don't — worry or — whatever." Whatever it is decent people do. He's already taking a step back, extricating himself out of awkwardness with still more awkwardness.
Elisabeth nods slightly. "All right," she finally says. "I can't help but worry, it's what I do," she smiles. "If you need anything, you have the number. See you around, Deckard," she says, letting him escape as he needs to.
"Yeah," says Deckard, who backs up without actually turning to walk away, eyes trained on her without really seeing until he forces out a fractured, "Thanks," and turns to go in earnest, almost distracted enough to wander out into the street where there's a perfectly good sidewalk. It'll probably be a few blocks before he remembers he was going to check the pack for nasty surprises.