amadeus_icon.gif cat_icon.gif

Scene Title Rejected
Synopsis Amadeus wants two things from Cat. He only gets one.
Date September 8, 2010

The Rock Cellar

A comfortable place, located in the basement of 14 East 4th Street. The red brick walls are covered with memorabilia from various icons of rock and places in rock history, creating a feel similar to that of a Hard Rock Cafe.

The left wall has two bars separated by swinging doors which lead to and from the kitchen. Directly across from the entrance is a two foot high stage with all the equipment needed for acts to perform there. The right wall has three doors marked as restrooms: two for use by women and one by men.

Thirty square feet of open space for dancing and standing room is kept between the stage and the comfortable seating placed around tables which fill the remainder of the Cellar.

The lighting here is often kept dim for purposes of ambience, and when performers are onstage the place is loud enough to make conversation difficult. Just inside the door is a podium where location staff check IDs and stamp the hands of those under twenty-one with a substance visible under UV lights at the two bars and by devices the servers carry. On the podium's front is a sign with big black letters that just about explain it all: If You Don't Like Rock 'N' Roll, You're Too Late Now!

It's late, curfew's only a few minutes away, and the Rock Cellar's not quite locked yet, but it's certainly devoid of anyone who doesn't want to get caught out after hours. He's wearing a black Yankees bat bag, a black AC/DC shirt, and a pair of blue jeans, hands in his pockets as he looks around. "Fuck, this place always been here?" he asks himself as he walks through the dance floor, possibly assuming he'll have an empty place to crash. "Fuckin' curfew."

The last of the Rock Cellar's staff members is tending to one final detail before leaving for the night, the door was left unlocked for her to exit by. She lives in the Verb, so she doesn't need much time to get home. Curfew, for her, isn't a problem. "Crap on a stick," the tired server mutters as she witnesses this man enter and move to the open floor with the intent of squatting. Sloane Carter just wants to go home and sleep, she's got a busy day of classes at Columbia in the morning.

"I've got this one, Sloane, take off," instructs a feminine voice from a shadowy table along one wall. "Sir, the Rock Cellar is closed. Please come back tomorrow when we're open again."

"Ah, shit, I ain't, like…" Amadeus turns around to face her, but he doesn't approach. God knows everyone's carrying mace and tasers these days, or just a good ol' fashioned kick in the crotch. "It'll be curfew soon, I can't get anywhere I need to go in time, was just gonna sleep under a table or somethin'." He tilts his head, leaning forward as if he can somehow get a better look. "You're kinda hot."

She doesn't appear to be carrying Mace or any other sort of weapon, this woman seated at the table who spoke. All that's visible on the table before her is a glass of dark liquid with a creamy head to it. Her face is partly obscured by the dim lighting there, but visible enough for his stated conclusion when he moves to see more clearly. "Is that so?" Cat dryly asks.

"I might be able to make some arrangements for you."

"That'd be pretty kickass." Amadeus finally just walks over and plops down in the seat on the other side of her table, leaning in with his elbows on the table while showing a great lack of etiquette. "Name's Amadeus Deckard. And I swear if you say you and my father fucked, I'm just gonna jump out of a freakin' window right now." he rolls his eyes, but otherwise seems to be joking.

"Deckard," she repeats under her breath, eying the man a little more closely now as if to determine family resemblance. Coincidinces tend to be the exception rather than the rule in her life. "I'm fairly certain your father and I haven't… fucked even if his name is Flint." And that chance raises even more possibilities in her mind. If this is Flint's son, did he send him here as a prank of some sort? Did he hear about her from the older Deckard?

Maybe on second thought she should've said they fucked like rabbits every night from ten til six, just to see if he really would jump from a window.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, he really does know every smokin' hot chick in the city. Fuckin' ridiculous." Amadeus shakes his head and just thumbs it down on the table a few times, grunting. "So what's these arrangements and stuff?" he asks, sitting back up straight to rub his forehead with an open palm.

"I take you to the front desk at the Verb, it's outside and upstairs, and a man there will let you into an empty apartment for the night," she replies. Then the man is studied a bit more. "There could be a lot of Flint Deckards in the city," Cat opines, "we might not be talking about the same one. Six feet two inches, scruffy, usually doesn't shave and smells of whiskey, with x-ray eyes?"

"He's got fuckin x-ray eyes? I just met the guy a few weeks ago, gave 'im a DNA test. But, like, how's he got fuckin' x-ray eyes? Before I lost my ability to the flu, I had cat telepathy, shouldn't his thing, be, like… cats or somethin'? X-ray cats? I don't fuckin' know. You sure it ain't a cat scan?" There's a pause, and he takes a page out of the book of Sable to waggle his eyebrows a few times, "Y'know, I don't gotta go to an empty apartment."

"Flint Deckard is registered as Tier 1," Cat informs, "it's public knowledge he has an ability." She rises to her feet, letting out a quiet snort at his comment on not needing to go to an empty apartment. Beyond that, she doesn't grace it with a direct acknowledgment. "The man's your father, and you had an ability, but didn't do your homework to see if he might be listed with something? What's your name?"

Keys in hand for locking the door after exiting, she moves in that direction and takes the pint with her.

"Flint Deckard is registered as Tier 1," Cat informs, "it's public knowledge he has an ability." She rises to her feet, letting out a quiet snort at his comment on not needing to go to an empty apartment. Beyond that, she doesn't grace it with a direct acknowledgment. "The man's your father, and you had an ability, but didn't do your homework to see if he might be listed with something?"

Keys in hand for locking the door after exiting, she moves in that direction and takes the pint with her. While doing so, she addresses an idle curiosity. "Is your full name Wolfgang Amadeus Deckard, by any chance?"

"The hell would I care if he had an ability for? If he could do cat stuff like I could, it'd be fuckin' lame anyway. And it ain't like I know how to go checkin' their… thing they keep all the Evolved stuff in." Amadeus twirls a few fingers around, apparently having lost the word 'registry' somewhere in his head. "And fuck no, I ain't got a middle name, but my mom thought I might be a genius if she gave me a good name. I got the Deckard name 'cause she wanted to spite my dad."

"It's on a website," she explains with a mildly bored tone as the door opens and she stands there holding it so he'll follow, "and he's your father, you might've wanted to know all you could learn about him." Cat's eyes rest on him with a variety of expectant expression to them while waiting.

"Well yeah, but I ain't like, a hacker or somethin'." Amadeus follows her, hands in his pockets as he continues looking around, taking in the sights of the building. "How long's this club been here? And what's your name?" he finally asks, walking through the door.

Greenwich Village

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.

Keys are used once he's outside with her, Cat locks the door and turns to climb those stairs to 4th Street. "It's been here about a year and a half," she tells the man. As for her name, she considers withholding, but it's public knowledge she lives at this place and Flint Deckard knows a good bit more. "Cat," is all she provides.

Along the building's front she goes, less than a minute later pausing in front of the glass doors to the Verb proper and being admitted swiftly on sight by the man at that desk she spoke of.

The Verb

The lobby of this building is spacious, with wide glass windows which look out onto 4th Street. The floor is a polished grey marble; the smooth walls are freshly painted in a cream color. A security desk staffed by men and women in professional clothing occupies a central position. From that desk maintenance crews are overseen and directed; they also monitor the footage from discreetly placed security cameras which cover all the public areas on the first through fourth floors, including the elevators (one centered in the lobby and each corridor), the stairwells at the front and back of the interior, and the outside of the entire building. More than one person is on duty at all times, and the public areas are kept well lit around the clock.

Behind the desk are four unmarked doors of heavy steel with strong locks and keycard access, evenly spaced. Keycards are required for entry to the building itself during hours of darkness. Anyone without them must make their case for entry with the security staff by the voice transmitters on both sides of the doors.

The rest of the ground floor has three corridors of four apartments each, their doors are sturdy pine with strong locks operated by metal keys and numbered from 101 through 112. Floors two and three are the same as the first floor, minus the security desk and unmarked doors. Each of these have apartments in that corridor instead, making a total of sixteen each, numbered in the same fashion as the first floor residences.

What exists above the third floor is anyone's guess. The elevators only have visible buttons for those first three levels and a control panel of some sort which takes a key and a keycard to access. If the security staff members know what's up there, they aren't saying.

"That's fuckin' funny. If I had my ability, wonder if I could read your mind." Amadeus looks around the lobby, then eyes the man at the desk with a light shrug. "So what's your apartment like? You hang out in a club like that, I'm guessin' you're into music and stuff." he says as he makes not-so-subtle hints/reminders about her apartment.

"Yes, positively hilarious," Cat replies in a bored tone, afterward choosing not to speak of her own residence. It's a display of politesse where she doesn't overtly say anything mean, but the intent to convey a touch of frost is present. "Music and… stuff," she appends, "you could say that. If Flint is your father, I'm sure he'll have some stories to tell."

The glass door closes behind her, on reaching the desk she tells the man there "I need the card for 106, the one that guy who moved to Florida last week lived in." He nods and hands it over, Cat in turn offers it to Amadeus.

"Ouch, rejected." Amadeus laughs, grinning as he takes the card and looks it over, then just nods. "Thanks, you ain't have to do this, so I owe you. And my dad ain't much for talkin' about stuff." He looks around for the elevator, slipping the card into his pocket. "I'll stop by the club some time? I've been in jail for three years, so I never saw it before."

"You don't need the elevator," Cat informs on seeing him look around for one, "the apartment's on the first floor, in the back hallway." In going there, he'd discover the side corridor has four apartments, as does the back hallway, with an elevator for each passageway as well as one behind the front desk.

"The Cellar's open from around 11 most days until half an hour or so before curfew," she adds. "Might be your kind of place," the panmnesiac opines with a gesture at his shirt. "As for owing me, we might discuss that later. Welcome back to society, and good night."

After speaking those words she's moving away and taking a taste of that pint, silently resolving to snag a photo of the man from camera feeds in the morning and send it to Abby.

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