Similar Traumas


devon2_icon.gif kincaid_icon.gif

Scene Title Similar Traumas
Synopsis The two members of Studio K stuck in the Dome briefly acknowledge their similar traumas, without actually getting into details.
Date February 28, 2011

Russo's Office: Studio K

Life at the studio is, as it can so often be said, busy. The hustle and rush of papers and guests and all other things necessary to make the shows happen give life to the building and generate its own constant hum. Yet blessedly, all that stops outside the office of Brad Russo. Beyond that door is relative quiet, the noise outside a faint buzzing that's easily ignored.

The television host isn't in at the moment, off for some meeting or another with instructions that he'd return later. His intern, however, is hiding within the office away from the constant press and controlled chaos that still wears on him after too long. Some things take longer to return to than others.

Devon, in shirt and tie, sits behind the desk, sleeves rolled half way up his arms displaying the cuts from being bound with zip ties. Eyes looking out from a less-bruised face, watching without really seeing as fingers bend and twist paperclips into different shapes. Physically, he's healing, the bruises and scraps fading, the deeper cuts looking healthier. The one that nearly took out his eye has sealed almost perfectly thanks to the super glue, it'll scar but not terribly so.

The presumed privacy of the office is broken by a quick knock that only lasts long enough to be somewhat polite, before the door is pushed open. "Brad, I needed to…" the voice suddenly cuts off and the man stands with his hand on the door and his mouth partially opened in surprise. Kincaid obviously wasn't expecting to see anyone else at the desk. By all appearances the two might well be partial mirrors of each other, though the older man darker of hair and eye, but with similar healing bruises and cuts that are tended to and likely will scar.

They have something else in common besides their jobs, after all. They were both inside the Dome.

"Oh, sorry— You must be Mister Russo's intern," he apologizes after a minute. "I didn't mean to just barge in, but I wanted to…" he trails off, with a hint of a handwave, as if attempting to fill in the blank with words he can't quite grasp, or doesn't want to voice. "We've never really gotten to meet," he ends up adding, as he steps inside. "I'm Kincaid."

If Devon hadn't been expecting Russo's return he might have startled far worse at the door opening. As it is, the reaction is toned down to a cold and wary look that quickly fades as Kincaid reveals himself. "Yeah… yes sir. I'm Devon, intern type." He glances past Kincaid to the hallway, head tilting to afford a better view. Just a quick look, then his attention is back on the assistant producer. "Mister Russo is… Well, he'll be back eventually. And it's… good to meet you, Mister Kincaid."

"Devon," Kincaid repeats the name quietly as he glances back into the hallway, as if checking to see if Russo's going to come up behind him while he stands close to the door. No sign of him, so he pushes the door closed most the way, leaving it open a crack as he continues inside. "You don't have to call me sir, or Mister— Kincaid is fine," he offers, as his dark eyes focus for a long moment. It could be he's trying to figure out something as he watches the young man. "I hear you were in the Dome, too."

"Yeah." The single word answer could hold volumes to Devon's time inside the Dome. His eyes go back to the paper clips, the idle non-work he'd been participating in while escaping from the bustle outside. He sighs and sweeps the mess off the desk, collecting the slivers of metal into a hand before dropping it into the wastebasket. His movements are slow, considering one shoulder, favored though he works to ignore it. "Yeah, I was," the teenager continues, looking back to Kincaid.

"Me too," Kincaid says with an equal amount of volume. Empathy and sympathy all wrapped into one, from shared experiences, and the knowledge of how bad it must have been. But there's more to it than that. "I heard about your aunt, too. I'm sure she was proud of you for getting this job— I know what it's like to lose your family. My mom and dad died when I was younger than you— and I lost an uncle as well," he explains in faint tones. "You're certainly stronger than I would have been. I don't think I could have kept doing my job if that happened to me."

"My aunt gave me the push to apply," Devon admits quietly. He'd wanted the job more than anything, worried about trying for it until his aunt finally gave him the nudge he needed. He drags a hand through his hair, eyes falling to the desk top over the memories, things still painful he'd rather not talk about most days. "She… she took me in when I was a kid, after my parents died. I owe it to her to keep working, hard as it is sometimes." He pauses, eyes flicking up again. "It's good to see you survived that whole… whatever it was."

"Aunts are good at that," Kincaid says with a hint of a smile, even if it's sad at the same time. "They push us to do things we normally wouldn't, even when we really want to. I had one who helped me out a lot, too." And he hesitates a moment, as if that's not the best comparison. He'd said he lost an uncle, not an aunt. "I'm glad you made it through too. I'm sure we both got pretty amazing stories, but even working in this business right now, I don't think it's something I want to talk about on television or radio. Kinda get how our guest stars might go 'screw you' when we ask them to talk about their traumatic experiences."

Briefly, Devon manages his own grin. It falters shortly after it's formed, turning more toward a sad grimace. Some wounds, hidden under the surface, don't heal as quickly as those more easily seen. He leans back in the chair, one arm crossing his chest and holding the other. "I don't have an amazing story, just a three-week long nightmare. And I know what you mean about talking about it. It's not a story that needs to be shared."

"If you need someone to talk about it with, though, you might have an easier time of it with someone who was there," Kincaid offers, as he continues to approach the desk. Under the cuff of his sleeves matching bandages can be seen, from where his wrists were deeply cut up from being bound. He doesn't limp, or move as if he's in pain, but the damage is still visible. Even hidden by bandages in some cases.

Another near grin, this one tired more than sad. Another offer, though he shouldn't be surprised. Devon nods after his eyes catch on Kincaid's own wrists. His own wrists, cuts likely kin to those the older man received from being captured and bound, are openly displayed at the moment. He nods again, glancing upward. "They got you too?" It's more statement than question, concerned while trying to maintain distance from the experience.

"Yeah," Kincaid says as he raises his bandaged hands up with a hint of a laugh. They definitely did get him, though it's hardly a laughing matter. "I don't think there's many people who were trapped within the Dome who didn't have to deal with them at one point or another." His half of the story would have involved how he lived with some of them at first, in hiding… But he'd never been forced to really help them. As if getting his desire to maintain a distance, he changes the subject. "Do you plan to stay with the Studio even after Russo leaves?"

"I don't know," Devon answers, relieved to switch topics. Remembering his own capture is a trial on the best of days, reliving killing and being beaten and bound. The events that followed aren't any more pleasant and continue to haunt him as well. It reflects in his posture, the whole experience. "I… I came in as his intern. I'm not really an employee here. Not a paid one, anyway. I have some options, though. School, or… something."

"I think it'd be a good opportunity to continue working here," Kincaid suggests quietly, as he glances toward the door again, as if to make sure no one's easedropping on them. "There's a lot of people working here, and Russo could always recommend you to some of the better ones. If I had to choose, though, I'd see if Miss Quinn wants some help. Who wouldn't want to work for a rising rock star."

Also with a glance toward the door, Devon shrugs that single shoulder again. "It's a good opportunity," he agrees. There's no sense in denying, gaining first hand experience is always a plus. "I'm not sure that my heart is really in show business anymore. I'd come in expecting to be an actor one day, expecting to learn about the industry. Now I can't tell you if it's where I want to be anymore."

"Acting— definitely not a profession I'd pick, especially now. I don't think you'll even find many soap operas that are hiring these days," Kincaid admits with a shake of his head, perhaps cursing their studio to being the last remnants of the crazy world of show biz. "Everything's going 'reality' and as we both know, more often then not, 'reality' sucks too much to really want to be involved in showcasing." Then he offers what is mostly a smile, backing up toward the door again. "You got options, and you should use them. I hope everything works out good for you, Devon, no matter what you choose."

"Stuck to it because of my aunt." Devon's implications meaning the studio and the internship. And he'll stick it out until the end. "After… after the Dome, I'm not certain I could go back to that. But… I have options." He grins a little, in understanding. Options are good, and when the time comes he'll persue those options. Standing, the teenager moves around the desk to hesitantly extend a hand to Kincaid. "It's good finally meeting you, sir. And… likewise, if you need to talk about… about the Dome?" The one-shoulder shrug returns. He may not be willing to speak just yet, but he's taking little steps to reach out.

"I'll keep you in mind, Devon," Kincaid says with a smile, and a tone for an equal, not someone a good ten years younger than him. Even used his name, like an adult, and not a kid. Hard to really call someone a kid after they've been through an experience like the Dome. "Don't bend up too many of his paper clips. He might need those where he's going next," he adds as a joke, even grinning to show it's not meant to be harsh, before he steps out the door he entered earlier.

Whatever he was going to ask can wait. If he remembers what it was in the first place.

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