Red Herring


carmichael_icon.gif goodman_icon.gif

Scene Title Red Herring
Synopsis Nursing his injuries, Carmichael meets with Goodman to discuss the state of their affairs.
Date February 16, 2009

Biomere Research, Inc.

Crutches clunk and thunk across a carpeted floor towards a glass-topped desk. Looking more drawn-out and gaunt than usual, espescially in the glow of fluorescent lights, Jonathan Carmichael inclines his head to the figure seated behind it. Dark eyes lift up from Roger Goodman, assessing the sling one of Carmichael's arms is bound in, and the brace on his right leg. "Reports weren't exaggerating I see…"

"No, Sir." Carmichael eyes the chair, then shifts his weight to lean on the crutch, "You'll forgive me if I don't take a seat." Goodman's lips crack into a smile, his head shaking slowly as his attention turns back to the paperwork he is perusing. "We recaptured Julian Kuhr," even though it's stated in the report in Goodman's hands, the verbal confirmation is welcomed, even if it does bring up additional questions.

Goodman's eyes rise from the documents at the mention, watching Carmichael carefully, "What about Delphine Kuhr?" His voice takes on an exceptionally focused tone, sharpened like a knife pointed to his confidant's throat. Carmichael's eyes divert down to the floor, head shaking slowly.

"Nothing on his sister yet. We're keeping an eye on traffic surveillence cameras, we'll find her." Even as he speaks, Carmichael can't help but find his eyes drawn to the jagged ruins of Midtown viewed over Goodman's shoulder out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The gray skies contrast sharply to the broken frames of skyscrapers rising up like skeletal fingers to claw at the heavens. Grave markers of the world that was, "We'll find her."

"What have you learned from the prisoners at Moab, other than…" Goodman tosses the paperwork down to his desk with a dissatisfied look, "…the obvious." There's an outward wince from Carmichael, not just from his injuries, at the mention of Moab. The Homelanmd Security agent's head tilts to one side, brows lowered as his tongue swipes across his teeth, trying to get the bitter words he wants to lob out of his mouth.

"Verse was able to pick up a location from Helena Dean, we checked it out and it was a warehouse in Queens. Registration information checked out with a shell company owned by the european anti-evolved group that was responsible for the bio-weapon scare…" Hobbling towards the desk on his crutch, Carmichael's expression continues to darken, "Verse wasn't willing to push Dean any further. She's had contact with Claude Rains, she's had conditioning to resist mental interrogation."

Back and forth, the sour look goes. Goodman's lips downturn into a scowl as he folds his hands atop the paperwork from the recent raid. "Rains is on our watch list — we had suspicions he may have had association with Phoenix and PARIAH, but this just confirms it." Goodman takes a moment to think, staring vacantly at a tiny fingerprint smudge on his glass-topped desk. "Put the capture of Bennet and Gitelman on priority, we'll worry about Delphine later." As he speaks, Roger plucks a tissue from a kleenex box on his desk, delicately bringing it down to smooth away the imperfection on the glass.

"And Petrelli?" Carmichael's stare lingers on Goodman, unflinching, now his turn to be the knife. "He's proven extremely difficult to get solid information from. Verse wants to try and perform a deep scan, try to dredge up whatever he can from him."

"Petrelli is hands-off until I give you permission." The tissue is tucked into Roger's palm, followed by a deep purple-blue glow, and it is simply gone. His eyes lift up, coal-black and lacking warmth, "Absolutely hands off, for both of our sakes."

With his one good hand pinching the bridge of his nose, Carmichael nods his head and looks back out to the ruins of Midtown viewed over Goodman's shoulder. "There's still the question of what to do about Matthew Parkman." That in itself causes Roger to look away, back down to the paperwork which he neatly arranges on the desk's corner, one side flush to the edge. "He disappeared for over a week with Rickham, and his debriefing was — "

"Question Dean and Knight." Goodman's words are icily delivered, his hand forced, "Take whatever means necessary, and if Verse is unwilling to go the full mile, tell him that he can always be replaced." With his cold stare back to Carmichael again, Goodman pushes his chair back and rises from it. "Whatever you find about Matt Parkman is to be kept between you, I and Verse for the time being. Once I assess the information personally, then we'll discuss what to do with it."

Nodding his head, Carmichael looks away from Roger, "Alright. I can work with that." There's a half-step, more of a shuffle to the side as Jonathan tries to settle more weight onto his good leg, the re-opened gunshot wound to his knee beginning to ache more as his pain medication fades. "Is that all?"

Circling around his desk, Roger comes to lay a hand on Carmichael's shoulder, fingers curling into the shoulder of his suit. "Don't push yourself too hard, Jon." All the chill of business has faded, leaving behind only the faint and familiar warmth of camraderie and friendship years old. "You did good bringing Kuhr in. We'll get the others, soon enough."

Eyes on the hand, Carmichael nods slowly, a hesitant smile creeping back up onto his lips, "Thank you." No more is spared, already the two have opened their defenses enough to show some semblance of humanity left behind between one another, and the silent nod that Goodman gives is all Carmichael needs as the hand lifts from his shoulder, and he makes his way out of the office, the door clicking shut once he's gone.

Waiting just a heartbeat, Roger is quick to retrieve a thin gunmetal cellphone from his jacket, flipping it open as he takes a slow, leisurely walk towards the windows overlooking midtown. In the silence of the call connecting, he lets that horrible sight of decimation fill his senses, lets the ruins of this once great city remind him of why he is here, and what it is he really is doing.

"Yes, it's me…" Cold and dark eyes stare out distantly to the jagged and broken remains of the Empire State, and what they see is not the ghosts of the past, but an image of the future, of what could be.

"…I have the progress report."

February 16th: Swords Are Just Overkill

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

February 16th: Prophetic Aggravation
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