Participants:
| Scene Title | Shaking The Snowglobe |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It's what happens when the wrong people are trapped in the Dome, and outside of it. |
| Date | February 10, 2011 |
It's going to be two weeks soon.
Two weeks that this thing circled around this patch of ruinous city and Michal Valentin has barely been near the wall of it, but he is now, where it cuts into Queens' coast on the south-most side. It's getting dirtier by the day, the air itself kept marginally clean by the ventilation machines rigged up at certain points of the dome's radius — both ends of Roosevelt Island, for instance, and one nearby where Valentin crouches now, a blockish machine set against the barrier, glimmering blue where it touches the light-crafted wall. It spills excess air where it hits, flooding run off against the outer-side, while only making a marginal effect on the other side.
But every bit counts, or it may, if things don't let up. Valentin is not helping, a lit cigar in hand and smoke thick and grey-tinted from his mouth. When he streams it steadily a few inches to hit the forcefield, it doesn't push through, only snakes up against it, dispersing. He crouches on the damp ground, where snow has long melted, but snow has built up on the opposite side in a fish-tank visual effect, pressing the backs of his knuckles low at where the barrier meets the ground and feeling the slight coolness that manages to penetrate the barrier.
Interesting.
He is not alone. Two of the men that help man his boat pace themselves distanced on the Queens foreshore, giving space while also keeping watch, while Valentin has the protection of the river to his right, and the impenetrable forcefield in the immediate front. He's only just begun to become unshaven, with grey-brown growing bristled at his jaw, but his hair is combed, his clothing urban but not unclean. He's been a lowkey and affable contributor to the people desiring to cross the river should they have no alternative, especially in the wake of disastrous and mysterious rescue boat explosion.
And he's put in a call to meet, as the sun begins to sink. A normal sunset, for most. For him, it reflects weirdly through the glass enough to catch his eye as he straightens his legs to stand.
Heading out to Evo Island, or near enough anyway, isn't how Clint normally envisions spending his evenings. But a call from a fellow Humanis First member, and an informant, was worth enough to have him driving to Queens rather than heading home as he'd planned.
He parks as near as he can and gets out, still wearing his suit that makes up his 'uniform'. The jacket is unbuttoned as he looks around, making it easier for him to reach his gun if such a thing becomes necessary. He doesn't thing that Valentin is going to be setting him up, but with his hobbies, it never hurts to be cautious.
After he's visually cleared the area he starts towards the blue barrier, his pace casual, as is his stance, his expression. When he nears the spot where Valentin is, he nods slightly. "Michal. I was surprised to hear from you."
"People usually are," Valentin says, easy enunciation in his still clearly European accent, slovak and languid. His smile is the same, always pulling a little too wide. "I don't know why. Humans are social animals." He might have approached, but he is very much on the wrong side of the wall, although he accommodates by pacing several feet away from the water's edge, where it laps against concrete sealing it off from the land. "Please forgive me if I don't shake your hand."
In the waning light, the cigarette tip flares brightly, cycloptic and orange, when Valentin draws its pure smoke into his lungs, eases it out again, where it will rise and rise and join the smog trapped in the sky. "Thank you for coming."
"I don't know why the others are surprised. Me? I just don't hear from you that often," Clint says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "And I could hardly refuse to come, now could I? A summons from someone like you, from inside there?" he says, nodding towards the dome. "I had to come for curiosity sake if nothing else."
"Intriguing, I agree." This delivered brightly, through the haze of smoke that Clint can't smell from this side, Valentin flicking the stub of cigar to let ash fall at his feet, peppering grey on the toe of his boot. "I summoned you because I have information that must go on to the powers that be, and we are of like enough minds that I feel you would do your part. That island," and he points to it, Roosevelt Island, while keeping his knife-steel blue eyes on Clint, "will be burning by tomorrow. The smoke will rise black enough at the top that people will see it from their homes."
Another smile, abrupt. "This is not the information you share, unless you are able to contact Georgia Mayes, because she will understand what you and I understand." About the Evolved plague, at any rate. "If she would like her toy contractors to survive, then you and herself must find a way to move them to Queens. The looting and pillaging should be enough incentive and reason to order them to restore some peace. If they don't, then we will do to them what we did to their boat and the men on it, and what we will do to the mutants.
"Or they will run myself and my men through will bullets," he adds, with a broad sweep of his arms. "But you would rather that not occur, I think?"
That first part has Clint's brows lifting, and he glances off, briefly, towards the island, before his gaze slides back to Valentin. "You've been very busy in there. I'm glad to hear that you haven't been wasting your time," he says, lips curving into a sharp, predatory smile. "I'll get word to Mayes. And I'm sure that both of us will agree that you're more valuable than her pets. They're just pawns. While we? We're the ones that make things happen."
Setting teeth against the damp end of cigar, Valentin tilts his head in idle agreement, drawing in more smoke that he releases along with more words. "She will complain that the Department will want the Dome-creator to survive, and you can tell her that if she does exactly as I say, she will have him when this is all finished." Him. It could just be patriarchal default. Or maybe he knows. He isn't about to illuminate what could be truth or bluff. It's like poker.
If Clint's brows were lifted before, they shoot right to his hairline now. "You know who's responsible? Do you know he did it? The freaks don't normally try to off each other on quite this large a scale. Which is a pity, really, they could do it more quickly than we could. Nice little civil war would be a godsend for us normal people," he says, shaking his head sadly. "But I'll let her know."
"I know how to know," is cryptic enough, despite Valentin being one of the more direct of informants when it comes to issues most Human. But maybe the wall separating himself from the man allows his natural inclination to being facetious shine through. "And that will have to be enough for your departments, with exception to your own opinion."
The burning end of the cigar is ground out against the wall of the Dome, burning blue while orange is snubbed into ashy black and grey, leaving a sooty mark hovering in the air as he lets the thing drop. "My kingdom for a cool beer," he adds, tilting a look back up towards where smog and snow hover surreal on the top of the forcefield.
"You get the one responsible, take care of the people on the other side, and I'll buy you a six pack of your favorite brew," Clint replies, again smiling, a hand rubbing over his chin, eyes thoughtful. "I'll be sure to keep an eye out. It'll be a sight to see, I have no doubt of that."
"Have an exceptional evening, agent. I shall watch the river." And with that promise, Valentin tucks his hands into his pockets, and heads back to where his boat lurks in the still, still water, a merry whistle following his exit.
