Participants:
| Scene Title | Seeing A Man About An ID |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A bit of miscommunication sends Liz to see Smedley on Staten. |
| Date | Sep 1, 2010 |
Fresh Kills Harbor
The morning after his therapy session with Johnny Walker in his trim black suit, Wes Smedley can be found on board the docked What Jenny Thought. The yacht is small - no more than a twenty footer - and Smedley is sprawled over what amounts to the deck, his arms and legs splayed. He's on his stomach, and his head isn't too far from the side of the boat. It's probably not the best place to be when you're sleeping off a hangover, but at least he's close to a place where he can freely vomit and not have to worry about cleaning up afterward.
Still, Fresh Kills isn't as bustling as Port Ivory, which is what Smedley needs. Quiet. Even if there are pigeons and gulls looking to pick at the trash that skirts the edges of the shoreline or litters the dock.
Well, it's the last place most people would think to look for a FRONTLINE officer, that's for damn sure. Liz has made a level attempt to fit in around here — a pair of olive-drab cargo pants that aren't the cleanest, a black tanktop. She looks mussed and a bit dirty, which hopefully will make her just a little bit less of a target out here. She calls out, "Ahoy the boat!" But when there's no answer, she picks her way aboard with impunity.
"Well, now…. isn't that a cute sight?" Elisabeth murmurs tartly. He's a pretty cute guy, but that particular sprawl isn't as attractive as it might be. She kicks the bottom of his foot with her combat-boot-encased one. "Hey…. Wes Smedley, right?" Not so much with the sympathy, this blonde.
Whoever he is, he groans as he's yelled at and kicked. But when Elisabeth says his name, Wes lifts his head and looks back at her, eyes squinting against the oppressive sunlight. "Who wants't know?" he slurs, more from the lack of actual sleep and residual alcohol in his system than anything else. He lowers one of his hands, reaching for something near his hip that is hidden by the lay of his brown sport coat.
Oh, no no no. She moves very deliberately and puts just enough distance between them that if he's pulling a weapon, the one that's already appeared in her own hand will be in perfect position to take a shot. "Ah, ah, ah," Elisabeth says mildly. "Keep your hands where I can see them, Smedley. Richard would be more than a little cross with me if I had to put a bullet in his friend on a misunderstanding. And he'd be even more unhappy with you if the reverse happens."
Richard?
The name makes Smedley pause, and he raises his hand back up, closer to his head. He stays still for a moment, then pushes himself up so that he can roll over, his upper body weight supported by his elbows.
Two revolves hang in a tooled leather holster slung around his waist, visible now that the man has turned. "Card sent you?" he asks, still squinting, his words soft. After all, his voice is like cannon fire in his head. "Why?" Was their deal off?
"Because I'm the lady who has the information you need regarding Registration paperwork, my dear," Elisabeth retorts. And now that he doesn't appear to be reaching for that gun and we're all being friends here, Liz is feeling okay enough to put that 9mm back in her waistband. "And since I already had to be out on the island, I figured I'd bring you the name and contact information in person for when your identity papers are ready to go."
Smedley immediately tenses when Elisabeth explains her errand. It's as sobering as a gunshot wound. He is silent, though, and takes time to get to his feet, only to brace himself against the housing for the boat's navigation and propulsion controls. When he looks in Elisabeth's general direction again, it's with a subtle scowl.
"Okay," he grunts, then sniffs, inhaling breath past all manner of clogged passages that come when you sleep outside all night. "So when I get my ID, I find this person. This person who ain't you."
"I can't get you Non-Evo papers, Smedley," Elisabeth says. "It requires a cop or an agent at an approved medical center or Registration Center." She leans back against the railing, tilting her head. "And it'll require $100 and a valid ID. It'll be pretty simple," she tells him quietly. "And by the way, I'm Liz Harrison." Since she hasn't offered him her name as yet. "If you're concerned, you're welcome to call Richard and verify who I am. He just prefers to have business conducted in person where possible these days."
"I ain't Evolved in the first place, Liz."
Smedley growls the words out, folding his arms across his chest as he leans his shoulder and head against the housing, fighting to keep his eyes open. "So that ain't the issue. You gotta know there's some of us regular people - some of us who ain't special who don't want the government nosin' about in our personal business."
He's managed to surprise her. It's evident in her expression. "Well, now that puts an interesting spin on things. Shit…. if you don't need Non-Evo papers for that reason, that's as simple as a passable identity," Elisabeth says in surprise. So…. why the hell did Richard want her to take care of it? Or perhaps she misunderstood the instructions. "Hell, man… apparently I've entirely misinterpreted what got said." She grins a bit.
Smedley snorts at Liz's admission, then shakes his head. He doesn't comment on the confusion, but it's clear he's either appalled by the mishandling of information or simply amused. "You handle a lot of shit like this for Card?" he asks after a moment, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead. Hangover headaches suck, and scotch is a bitch in general the next morning.
Elisabeth shrugs. "Actually, normally I just handle getting our Evolved members covered. Which explains the misunderstanding," she explains. "Well, and things like blowing shit up." She shoves a hand through her blonde hair. "He told me you needed a Registration card and that you were wanted for questioning. When you Register, though, the cops tend to run your name through the database as a matter of course. So I can't swing getting you a Registration card under your own name." She ponders and says, "He must have just been wiped out tired. Our technopath should be able to set you right up. What kind of matter are you wanted for questioning over?" she asks.
"One that ain't none'uh your business," the man grunts again. If he's phases by the question, it doesn't show. He simply stares at Elisabeth (or rather her nose, but it's hard to tell with the squinting). "Card'n I go way back - back before he went and got himself all legitimized. I'm in the supply and demand operation." Which is a polite way of describing his semi-regular smuggling run made more regular by the promise of work from the likes of Devi and Cardinal.
Elisabeth shakes her head and smiles. "Well, let me put it to you this way, then. If you walk into a fuckin' precinct to register, are they going to have your damn face on the wall, Smedley, as one of America's Most Wanted? Or are you relatively anonymous in this matter? If the former, then I'll still give you the name of our guy who's helping get our Evo members passed as Non. If the latter, then I'll just get our technopath on getting you a full ID worked up so that you can waltz in an Register as Non-Evo on your own under an assumed name." She moves to walk back toward the railing of the boat. "Come by Redbird in a couple of days and we'll have at least something to start with." And then she looks at him over her shoulder with a cheeky smile. "Sorry you're under the weather today. Damn cute sprawl you got there, Wes."
The compliment disarms him, stealing any sort of witty retort right out of his mouth. Instead, he clears his throat and tries to retain some measure of dignity by straightening up and not resting his weight on the housing. He mumbles something, but it's under his breath. Then he clears his throat for a second time and steels himself. "Technopath," he says with a nod before looking out over the scum-covered water of the harbor. "Just need a new name. That's all."
"Tsktsk," Elisabeth clicks her tongue. "In this day and age, nothing is that simple anymore. An identity will require social security, bank accounts, and credit history. No one lives off the grid unless they're homeless. And if you're homeless, you're supposed to be checking in with a Registration officer every month. Not that they'll be checking. But anyway, it's just plain simpler to get you a full identity so that we don't have to worry about you getting jacked up on the street at some point." She shrugs. "Or… perhaps not simpler, just the 'right thing' to do." She smiles and climbs off the boat. "See you in a few days."