Participants:
| Scene Title | Skeet Shooting and Wildfowl |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Eileen's anger burns like ice after discovering someone's been in her effects — or does it? |
| Date | April 22, 2011 |
Sheltered by dense trees on one side with a view of the Atlantic ocean on the other, the Dispensary is derelict old building with a dark brick facade and tall, narrow archways decorated with crumbling white plaster accents that hark back to a much earlier era. The property covers several acres of waterfront and woodland, and is surrounded by a rusy chain-link fence that was erected after the main building was abandoned but before the bomb, and from the road dissuades tresspassers with antiquated windows like dead eyes with a view of everything.
To the Dispensary's right, a smaller satellite building has been transformed into a large garage with a door that pulls down and fastens at the bottom with a simple metal padlock even though a skylight in the garage's ceiling provides an alternate point of entry but is also covered with a metal grate as an additional security measure, and there are many.
Behind the main building, stretching out into the Atlantic, a concrete pier used to tie up boats is in an apparent state of disrepair and covered at low tide by barnacles when the stone supports are visible and the water laps against the rocky shore, which is protected by a natural outcropping that forms a small cove with a hidden entrance.
Thunk-thunk
The afternoon sun pours through the glass on one side of the long corridor, illuminating the expanse without need of a light. Set against the wall on the far end is a large wheel that is slowly spinning on its own accord or one would think, until a row of daggers hits it full force. The turn goes from clockwise to counter-clockwise from the trajectory and speed of the daggers hitting it, sending the target into a much more frenzied pace.
In the middle is a picture ripped from a magazine, the face is so riddled with holes that it's practically shredded. Though at the rate the wheel turns it's almost impossible to distinguish who or what it is anyway.
A grunt echoes from the opposite end of the long hallway before another knife plants itself square in the middle of the leaflet, sending a few sprinkles of confetti to the floor. Edgar's dark blue eyes are overcast by a heavy brow. Out of knives, he pulls some ball bearings from his pocket and begins whipping them one by one toward the wheel.
Crack-crack-crack
Like the sound of a gun.
"Preeeetty darn good." Just like Raith to show up and ruin an otherwise pleasant afternoon. He hadn't even been quietly watching for some amount of time. Just shows up, out of nowhere, with a medium-sized brown paper bag in one hand, and a small red apple in the other. "Knife throwing's a fine art, just like sharpshooting, you know," the ex-spy adds. Unassumingly, he gives that small red apple a short toss into the air. "But seeing you work on that wheel, makes me wonder how good you really are. Ever been skeet shooting?" Another toss of the apple. There's just something about afternoons where he's not being shot at, and he's busy figuring out his next moves that sets Jensen Raith in the mood to seek out remarkable feats.
"Never ach'ually tried shootin'," the speedster replies after a start. He's not used to people sneaking up on him. His left eye twitches at the rate of a locomotive axle at high speed but it settles to a slight tick every once in a while after he takes a deep breath. "Well… once. I shot a man in the leg to ge' 'im teh stop negatin' me. I don' like bein' negated." Like any evolved does, for the most part.
Dropping the rest of the ball bearings into the pocket of his weathered corduroys, he glances at the paper bag and then the apple. "So… was i' your turn teh cook or sum'one else's? I's goin' teh ge' more milk but— uhm.. I don' think any'un'll be drinkin' i'."
"Edgar, don't you remember buddy? Jensen's not allowed to cook. It seems that nobody appreciates my apparently unique ability to eat almost anything without complaint." And about that, Raith is not kidding. It was his own idea to refer to his concoction of eggs, vegetables, meats and ketchup as 'garbage.' And if Edgar's asked anyone else about it, they probably contended that's what it tastes like. "Ethan's not, either, because he's just no damn good at it. Keeping things in line with how it used to be is not why Eileen does almost all the cooking. She does it for our own good, and unless you know your way around the kitchen, that's probably the way it's going to stay." One more toss of the apple, this time at the speedster. Snack time?
There's a blur of motion that draws up enough wind to raise the ex-spy's arm hairs. Then apple is caught on the end of a knife, where Edgar got it from would be the target at the opposite end of the hallway. He carnie plucks it off and bites into it, shrugging his shoulders lightly at the explanation. "No, no' really. Ne'er been much for cookin', don' like fire. 'Sides if she likes i', I don' wan'teh take tha' away from 'er, righ'?" Not that the carnie's ever complained about anything that he's put in his mouth. Except that one time in that bar… that won't be mentioned. "Did'ja know, the most vile thing you can e'er put in your mouth is a cheese slice wi' ketchup an' maple syrup on i'?"
There is a few brief moments where Raith is simply staring at Edgar after his 'most vile' remark. Maybe the expression on the ex-spy's face is one that he's even seen before. The one that appears right before someone asks the question, "Why would you do that to yourself?" in plain disbelief. Why would you do that to yourself, Edgar?
"We's playin' a game o' cards, I lost the round." The apple is polished on the speedster's old shirt before being put to his mouth to take a large bite. His eyes dart around quickly as he chews, his eyebrows coming down low as he considers his next question very carefully, "Tha' raccoon ain't around issi'? 'E likes teh steal food, y'know. Thinkin' bou' makin' 'im some of them cheese slices, teach 'im a thing 'er two bou' stealin' from me."
"I'd be careful about trying anything like that," is Raith's word of caution. His now free hand works its way into the paper bag and another apple comes out. Given the size of the bag, he must have plenty in it. "You know how Ethan is about Tommy. Same way he is about everything. You get even one thing out of place about it, one little scratch or one tiny upset stomach, and fifty people die. Even if they had nothing to do with the mess." A move to bite the apple is aborted when the ex-spy decides that, no, he's not quite done talking yet. "And what happens if he likes that crime against humanity you're talking about feeding him? Then what?" Now, a bite. Crunch crunch.
"Then… I s'pose Ethan'll 'ave a bit've a problem on 'is 'ands in tryin' teh make tha' 'ellspawn 'appy." For some odd reason, Edgar doesn't seem too concerned about what will and won't make the invincible man angry. Another bite is taken from the apple before a quick glance is given to Raith and the carnie rubs his chin with one thumb. "So skeet shootin', s'tha' sumthen 'alfway smart teh do 'round 'ere? I's doin' this inside so no one'd 'ear me, righ'?"
"That's right, and as for shooting skeet, that's when a machine tosses a small clay disc into the air and you try to blast it out of the sky to see how good you are." And to that end, Raith shifts his grip on the apple in his hand and tosses it through the air, down the hall without so much as the courtesy of letting Edgar know what his game is. He has to figure it out.
There's yet another small blur when Raith throws the apple, like a dog playing fetch or what have you. Afterward, Edgar is taking another bite of his apple and staring down the hallway at the target. In the center of the torn page is an apple placed on a dagger. It looks sort of like a head. For all his lack of etiquette and eloquence, the carnie isn't a slouch when it comes to following orders. Verbal or non. After another bite of the apple, his arm moves out to gesture at the target. "S'like tha' paintin' wi' the man in the suit an' an apple fer an 'ead."
"Nice." That's Raith's remark on the matter. A remark accompanied by him whipping out another apple from his bag. This one, however, seems destined to remain as a snack. "Never had much use for throwing knives myself, so more power to you for being that good at it. I'll be getting my power from a cup of coffee for now. You want one? You should have one. Coffee's good for you." Whether or not Edgar answers in the affirmative, Raith turns about and starts moving away from the wheel and towards the kitchen. Probably also to drop off his apples.
"Spent a lifetime practicin'," the explanation Raith gets is small, probably not too accurate, but it covers pretty much all of the bases. The offer of caffeine doesn't get an reply to the affirmative or negative, mostly because after the ex-spy's warning about his culinary skills, the speedster's a little wary. Besides, if he wasn't twitchy enough already. "So.. I go' a question, what're we doin' 'ere anyway? We jus' workin' to survive or wha'? 'Cause there's no' much 'ere, righ'? Seems teh be a need fer money an' the like." Edgar falls into step behind Raith, following toward the kitchen.
"Money's only part of the equation, friend. See, there are these things called 'organizational advantages.'" Entering into the kitchen proper, Raith deposits his brown paper bag on the counter and sets about opening the cupboards. Cups and coffee, and anything else will have to be pursued at a later time. "See, when you're part of a large organization, like the Ferrymen, you have the advantages of belonging to a large organization. More resources to leverage, that sort of thing. The problem is, it's large."
Rather than bothering to run around and start an electric generator, the ex-spy simply fills a kettle with water and deposits it on the stove. "Large organizations take time to, well, organize. But a small organization? Doesn't have as many resources, but it's small. Mobile, flexible, fast, and responsive. And best of all, deniable. That's us, Eddie. Small, mobile, responsible, deniable. You see what I'm getting at?"
"Ferrymen? The lads 'oo boat people 'cross the way between Staten an' Man'atten?" There's a twist to Edgar's lips, a grimace as though he doesn't quite understand the entire concept. It's just shrugged off and put out of his mind with a quick shake of his head as Raith keeps explaining. Taking another bite of the apple, he chews thoughtfully and points at the spy with the piece of fruit, using it as a way to garner attention. "So, yer sayin' we're like… the dustmen of this Ferry place. We pick up the rubbish when no one's lookin'?"
The sound of someone drifting down the staircase comes as the whisper of bare feet on stone, and the tips of fingers grazing along the curve of the wall — to soft to be be heard by anyone from a distance regardless of whether they're listening to it, but when Eileen steps down and out into the open, her diminutive form becomes difficult to miss even if it doesn't necessarily command attention.
It's not uncommon to steal glimpses of her in the hours between dusk and dawn dressed in something thin and gauzy with a heavy wool coat pulled over it for warmth — this is how she sometimes takes her morning walks, but with the addition of leather riding boots — but dappled sunlight is leaking in through the Dispensary's windows where the rays penetrate the trees outside, warming the brick exterior, and there's no excuse for the Englishwoman to still be dressed in what she wore to bed.
Which is why she isn't. A wool skirt and floral blouse in soft, subdued browns with white and pale purple accents reflects the changing seasons without losing her pragmatically conservative look, and she wears it paired with a much darker cardigan and camel-coloured coat that comes all the way down to her knees, worn open.
Her path takes her past the kitchen and both the men in it, but she does not acknowledge either of them, which is strange. Stranger still: she appears a little lost in her own home, her expression darkly vacant.
"Not, uh, exactly." Raith pauses for a moment, thinking about the best way to explain what it is they do, it finally occurring to him that Edgar is not privy to the exact operating methods of the Ferry. A fact which should probably continue to remain true. "We're more like the Ferry's angry, drunkard cousin." That doesn't add any clarification whatsoever, of course. But lo, the ex-spy spots a way to more easily convey what he means. "Eileen, perfect timing," he says when he spies the woman walking past, "I'm trying to explain to Eddie here what it is the Remnant does. Can you help me out?"
He's a man that considers practically every evolved man, woman, and child living on Earth a 'cousin'. The familial reference flips the switch to the lightbulb in Edgar's head and the dawning is actually visible as he emits an aaahh of understanding. "So… when sum'one 'urts the Ferry, we go in an' beat on them tha' done i'. Summat like Messiah, 'cept wi'out tha' poof tha' sneaks inteh b— Oh wai' .. nevermind, we go' them too." Edgar, Ethan, and Amato have taken Peter's place, only toward Eileen, who receives an all too bright smile from the carnie and a wave with his apple. "'Ello, you're lookin' a bi' lost. Need any 'elp findin' uhm… We go' coffee."
Eileen seems to pause when she hears her name spoken in the rough gravel of Raith's voice. She reaches up with a hand and places fingers on the edge of the arch that separates the kitchen from the dining area, and although her head tips to one side as if in consideration of what's being said, she seems much more preoccupied with the texture of the plaster beneath her nails. White paint flakes off under them.
Raith watches Eileen for a few moments. He then sends a glance to Edgar, and then back to Eileen. "Eileen?" he tries again, "Coffee? Tea? Thumb tacks?" Just like him to ask something like that. "You feeling okay? You don't seem like you're all there.
"Never mind." And the ex-spy is back to the cupboards for another mug, and a tea bag. "Whatever's up, a cup of hot tea will set your mind straight. After that, a little jazz." Meaning, they'll improvise whatever they end up doing. They won't actually play jazz. Probably.
A rush of wind is the only indication of Edgar's vacancy from the room and return. That and the glass of milk that's sitting near the coffee cups. He makes no comment in regards to the possibility of jazz music, he's never been much of an afficionado. Instead he begins rooting through the cupboards for sugar or a container with sugar in it.
"She's not a mid-afternoon riser, eh?" The carnie utters quietly, though it's probably loud enough for both to hear given that he's not the most stealthy of creatures at human speeds. "We go' apples too… Ef you're 'ungry." Raith has apples, Edgar's just sharing.
Eileen can be glacial. Anger does not, after all, always have to burn hot — it can scald cold, too, and she has every right to be upset. One of the men stuffed her familiar into a pillow case and almost stopped its little heart with fright. The other is responsible for putting him in a position where Ethan asked him to. This is usually the part where she'd say something, snap off a few curt words in sharp staccato rhythm—
They went through her vanity. Rattled around her medication. And, for all she knows, thumbed through the brittle pages of her journal as well. Confrontation should be imminent.
Instead, she drifts away, hand trailing along the parallel wall to guide her. A few moments later, the men can hear her fumbling with the knob on the side door. Metal and glass rattle. An elbow thumps against wood.
Eventually, she closes it behind her.
Once again, Raith spends a few moments with his attention away from the mugs and the kettle of water, watching Eileen as she leaves. And then, watching the space she was standing in as she fumbles with the door. Another glance to Edgar, this time for longer. "Did that…" he begins, sending his attention back to the archway. "Did that just happen?" This is not at all what he was expecting to have happen. Edgar may well have been unaware that this sort of thing is unusual, but Raith's behavior- and his question- should clear that up.
Generally, Edgar never really feels guilty for the shenanigans that he involves himself in. This time, his eyes shift slowly toward the ex-spy and a grimace wrinkles his nose before he looks away again. The carnie is obviously guilty of something. "The other day, I's 'avin' a bit've fun wi' 'er bird. No' fun in the sense tha' et was fun… jes'.." His voice dies off as he takes a deep breath. "Tha' Amato fellah, 'e was creepin' 'round, 'er bedroom. Ethan an' I found 'im an' sort've 'elped."
The man's shoulders rise for a moment and then drop quickly in a shrug. "'Spose we weren't too— uhm— She must've noticed the pillow sack was diff'rent than the one she 'ad. Weren't my fault though, I tried to match et, jus' none'o the ones I found smelled qui'e right."
Again, Raith looks at Edgar. This time, however, his question is a simple, "Seriously?" And then he looks at the archway again. If Edgar has anything more to say about it, Raith doesn't want to deal with it. "Come on," he says as he promptly leaves the kitchen, bound for the side door that Eileen used just seconds earlier, "Something's not right."
The speedster ambles along behind Raith, hands in his pockets. The clicking of ball bearings are sign enough of his nervousness in dealing with this particular problem alone. Though trying on the woman's glasses was sort of keen. He's impatient and reaches the door a little ahead of Raith, rattling it and getting it open just an inch or two before it stops. "Uhm— et's blocked. Wai' right'ere."
There's a streak as the speedster disappears but moments later, the door swings open to allow the ex-spy passage. "I'ma le' you go first… She pro'bly knows tha' I stuffed 'er bird in the sack." His brow sinks down to hood his eyes as he glares into the building. "Prob'ly tha' Amato fellah told'er… 'e didn' seem too keen on anythin' after findin' ou' you weren't trapped in the drawer."
"Will you forget about the bird for a second?" Raith half asks, half demands. With no snow on the ground, tracking becomes more complicated. "This isn't right. This is wrong." The ex-spy says this as he hurriedly steps out, looking for signs to indicate where Eileen might've gone. "Go to the garage right now, make sure she's not there, take all the keys for the vehicles, then get your ass back here and help me look for her." Raith doesn't wait around in the least. As soon as his order is issued, he immediately starts canvasing the area. Birds or no birds, she's fucking blind and the terrain is not even. There is no way she could have gotten very far in the few seconds she's had.
In the trees outside the Dispensary, the breeze wafting off the ocean brings the leaves to life, but there are starlings trembling in them, too. The flocks of New York City have shed their drab winter colours, exchanging sleek, glossy brown feathers with white speckles for dark iridescent feathers that gleam an almost electric purple-green when caught in the light. The foliage casts shadows, making it difficult for Raith and Edgar to get an accurate count, but if Raith has learned anything about this particular species of bird in the time he's spent with Eileen, it's that it congregates in large numbers.
They're contending with at least one hundred or more. Tiny feet scrape against beech tree bark. Feathers crackle with obvious irritation. It starts with one voice trilling out a shrill warning. Then another joins it, and another, and another, until the air itself is vibrating.
Go back inside where you belong.
Ignorant of bird language but not of threat, Edgar hesitates in complying with the order for a moment. Eying the flocks in the trees, he backpeddles toward the door until he's behind Raith again. The back of the other man's head reminds him of the man's directive and he speeds inside to find another way into the garage, trying his utmost to stay out of the line of sight of any avian creature.
After collecting whatever keys he might find in any of the vehicles, the speedster stuffs his pockets with other things; nuts of various sizes, more ball bearings, and bolts. Small items that are heavy enough at high speed and easily projected. It doesn't actually occur to him to grab any bullets. Moments later, he's jingling at Raith's side, a suspicious glance cast every step or two at the flocks inhabiting the trees.
Raith is ignorant of neither the birds' language or the threat, although he is plainly more daring than Edgar. He is not, however, an idiot, and keeps his area canvasing short and confined to the area immediately around the dispensary. And most of all, short. "New plan."
Without wasting another second, he turns back around and moves straight for the side door he left from, trusting Edgar to follow him. Clearly, they'll need an entirely different strategy for dealing with what is plainly a very strange and alien thing.
He doesn't need to be ordered to head back inside. Moving at a pace measurable only by the blur behind him, Edgar makes it in ahead of Raith and is peeking out the window by the time the spy makes it in. "There's a few too many of 'em fer pillow sacks," he comments idly as the other man strides through the door. "'Ow're we goin'teh find'er? 'Ead right in'teh where the biggest flock is? Would she be in there?"
His gaze is diverted to Raith for a moment before he shifts the curtain back into place. "I can prob'ly move faster'n they can see, bu' I dunno ef I can track 'er too well… An' if she's in a spo' wi' too many trees, I ain't gonna be able to change direction fast enough to avoid all've 'em, I don' think."
"Take too long," Raith replies as he shuts the door. "Gabriel can find her, if it comes to that. If she doesn't cool off and come home first. I'll assemble the Avengers, if we need to go looking. While I'm doing that, you go down to the armory and lay out the auto shotguns and as much loose change as you can find." Deliberately, Raith moves back towards the kitchen, where the kettle he'd set earlier is just beginning to shriek.
"Skeet will have to wait. We might go wildfowling instead."