Participants:
| Scene Title | Spare Parts |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard swings by Filatov's to check on a much-needed job offer. Unfortunately for everybody, it's still good. |
| Date | March 19, 2009 |
The largest, most obvious feature of Dr. Filatov's clinic is that one wall, an entire wall has been almost completely with what appear to be tall hardwood china cabinets, or possibly some other form of storage furniture from a bar, or kitchen or apothecary that have been nailed to the wall and cobbled together into some kind of uniformity. The last one may be the most likely, because every row of shelves that no run the length of the wall are covered with jars and bottles containing all manner of drugs, medicines, tonics, ointments and tinctures. The drawers below the shelves doubtlessly contain more supplies necessary for the operation of the clinic, so perhaps it's best not to question exactly what can be found in them. Besides that, the room is dominated by two large examination tables, which are really just old, well-worn wooden dining tables, with some of the matching chairs resting against the wall opposite the medicines, the closest to a waiting room the clinic has. A simple wooden screen in one corner serves as a dressing area. The unadorned wood paneling and scuffed hardwood floor are not the doctor's doing; he freely admits that whoever occupied this place last had both a thing for wood, and poor taste. The only other seemingly permanent fixture of the clinic is Ranger, Dr. Filatov's absolutely ancient bulldog, who spends most of his days lounging by the dressing screen, or wherever the sunbeams happen to pass through the steel window shutters. Besides a short hallway leading to the rest of the building (most of the space of which is taken up by the enormous examination/emergency/operating room), an unobtrusive door with far too many latches takes up a portion of an inside wall. 'Employees only' couldn't be spelled any more clearly.
Deckard is more sober than not. Given the unusual nature of that status at this hour barring intervention in the form of arrest or kidnapping, it could be said that he's having a better night than usual. Or, at least, a more responsible night than usual. The fact that the faded once-black-now-a-variety-of-shades-of-grey suit he's wearing has been dry cleaned suggests the latter. His hair has been trimmed and colored — now marginally more brown than dusty grey, and his stubble collection has been shaved down out of its increasingly deranged bristle, more grizzled sandpaper than homeless guy beard.
Professionalism it's not. It is an effort in that direction though, evidently made on funds so limited that he couldn't afford a tie to go with it. Right hand tried at the door, he lets himself in much as he did last time, feeling even more out of place now than he did when he at least had a hole in his head to explain his presence there. Now he just has a pair of sunglasses, and even those are folded closed once he's turned to shut the door behind him.
Unlike Deckard's last visit, he is not greeted by an empty, silent clinic. Not at all far from the door is the doctor's old bulldog Ranger, lazily laying on the floor. He's about as much mind to Deckard as he might to a particularly unattractive chair. What may be more interesting, however, is the fact that the doctor is busy at work, but not at all with a patient. Rather, he seems busy inserting new panes of glass into the cabinet that once showcased his impressive collection of drugs, tonics and assorted chemicals. Chemicals that, if they are not being stored in just the next room, are most likely gone. Their complete absence from the room would support this theory.
The door was unlocked, which means that Constantine will see patients, but he does not seem to notice when Deckard enters his clinic. He also looks, judging from the relative ease he finishes inserting a new pane with, like he's had to do this before.
As before, Deckard's eyes go to the dog first. All mashed up skull and stocky spine, it looks roughly the same as it did last time, leaving him free to focus on Filatov's skeleton at the cabinet. Now empty. The room feels different without the clutter of the bottles there, even in black and white, to the point that he looks as if he might draw in the breath necessary to ask what happened.
He doesn't. He doesn't do much of anything, for that matter. A few steps are taken further into the main room without real direction and he waits, one hand lifted to scratch at his neck while he glances around elsewhere.
Constantine may not have heard Deckard enter, but now that the glass isn't distracting him any longer, he definitely hears Deckard's footfalls on the hardwood floor. His response is the whirl around to face his guest, quickly drawing and aiming a revolver as he does. But it's only Flint Deckard, and although the doctor is at a loss to explain how his eye mysteriously returned, he lowers his firearm nonetheless. "You're looking different from our last meeting," he remarks casually. "I think it must be the jacket."
Having accidentally accomplished stealth in the stead of polite patience, Deckard turns his head sharply to zero in on the whirl of Constantine in his peripheral vision. He doesn't get much further than an upward twitch of his right hand upon seeing that there's already a gun out — stock still otherwise, like a coon caught in the wide beam of a spotlight with nowhere to run.
He's still stiff when the gun tips down, tatty suit doing little to disguise the wary rigidity in his spine and shoulders once he's remembered to exhale. "I got a haircut."
"It looks good." All the better, Constantine holsters his sidearm. No fight here. "So do you, but of course, you haven't come here to exchange pleasantries. What can I do for you this evening, friend? I trust you don't need another round of antibiotics."
"…Thanks." Even as he says it, Flint can't quite keep suspicion out of a narrow twitch at his recently returned left eye. The effort he's made towards grooming aside, he's underweight and on edge, jaw hollow in its usual narrow set while he watches Filatov put the gun away. "No. I came to see if you were still hiring."
Still hiring? That's just the kind of attitude Constantine likes when it comes to his business. "Indeed," he says, "Although, as you can see, I'm running low on more than just 'spare parts'. Your timing, quite honestly, could not have been better. Well-" That's not entirely true.
"If you'd come in when I was watching the door, your timing would have been better, but that's a small detail."
Spare parts. Deckard swallows, finds he has nothing to swallow, and lets his eyes trace pale over the empty cabinets once more. In the end he opts to nod, twitchy insecurity plain in the jerky movement, like he isn't sure if he should ask or — say anything else at all.
Looks like Deckard isn't the type to ask a lot of questions. Perfect. With a smirk, Constantine approaches the other man, although he takes the longer route around the far side of the examination tables, which is probably a lot less threatening than going straight towards him. "Are you familiar at all with human anatomy?" he asks, "Meaning, can I count on you to deliver without damaging anything?"
Deckard chuckles, mostly to himself, quiet mirth out of nowhere managing to exist along bared teeth despite the absence of humor in his eyes, or anywhere else about his person. Is he familiar at all with human anatomy. "Show me a picture and I'll find it. Give me instructions and I'll follow them. I'm not here because I intend to screw up."
"Good," Constantine says flatly, "I don't have time for that. Don't make a habit of it.
"And don't forget. They don't keep well once they've been disconnected. Blood type is important, too, so don't make plans to simply grab whatever happens to pass by at first opportunity. Fortunately, I happen to have a way around that barrier. When were you hoping to start? Immediately?"
"Yeah. I'll — " Deckard scrubs at the back of his head, brows knit hard over thought processes he'd been trying to avoid, "get an ice chest or something." Right after he finds another coat to make up for the one he gave to the barber. Persistent unease shaken off with a rankle at his nose and a steep breath, he nods again. "Immediately is fine."
"Smashing. Unfortunately, I can't immediately send you on an errand. Suffice to say a certain incident means that I haven't had the ability to schedule any surgeries as of late. How fortunate that you managed to find another source to replace your eye." Constantine, perhaps strangely, seems less than pleased by the fact that Deckard does have his eye back. "I wasn't aware I had competition. I don't suppose you could provide any details so that I may adjust my business strategy as appropriate."
"Friend of a friend. He's a healer. Doesn't come around here often." Easy lies pepper the truth that actually matters, prepared ahead of time, along with suit and hair and sobriety. "Shouldn't be a problem for you unless you intend to branch out into Manhattan." There is still more nodding at the news that there's nothing already on the docket, even if it is somewhat unexpected in a, 'looks like I'm robbing someone else before bed tonight,' way.
"I have no plans to," the doctor answers, "Too public. I am, however, short of certain supplies, as I mentioned. My usual channels might take near three weeks to get what I've asked for, which is something of a problem in my line of work. If you should happen to know where you might quickly acquire large amounts of various chemicals, it'd be helpful. It would also be profitable. Any ideas where you might look?"
Deckard listens almost too intently. He doesn't blink often, if at all, the narrow line of his focus leveled dead center on Filatov while he considers. "Depends on the chemicals. I have a few old maps of Midtown. Cross-referencing turns up things sometimes. Assuming a location wasn't directly in the line of fire…" he trails off, stopping well short of anything resembling a promise. "Give me a list and I'll see what I can dig up."
"I appreciate that." Returning to the cabinets, half of them still in need of new glass, Constantine unlocks and opens one of the lower drawers. Given by how he rummages around in it briefly, it seems as though that whatever he'd kept in the solid wood drawers survived whatever the items behind the glass did not. After a moment, the doctor produces a sheet of paper, and rather than writing on it, he simply walks back over towards Deckard and surrenders it. Apparently, he'd thought this out ahead of time, but with the exception of a couple names, nothing on the list looks like it should be taken as a medicine. Certainly not the different alcohols, aldehydes and acids, among some others. They aren't the sorts of things that would turn up in a casual search, for sure, but if they can be found at all, either the doctor knows something about medicine that most others don't, or he's planning to make a few essentials to tide him over.
Or, he's building some kind of superweapon to kill everyone on the island. All of these are probably equally likely.
A renewed thread of tension brings new definition to the stringy muscle that runs from collar to jaw when Constantine steps close. Distrust teeters Deckard back an unconscious half inch or so as well — a subtle anticipatory shifting of weight to better run or dodge or see who can pull their gun out the fastest.
Fortunately for their business relationship, none of these things are necessary.
He takes the paper.
Cold eyes briefly taking on a healthier hue, he glances quickly over the list, confirms that he has no idea what the fuck any of this stuff is, and nods anyway, oblivious to any potentially island-ending shenanigans that he might be looking at. He'll know tomorrow. …When he googles the list. "Sure."
"Now, if there's nothing else, I have a house call to make and some overpriced groceries to buy. I trust you can handle yourself once you've stepped out the door." Apparently, Constantine considers their business concluded. Or nearly conclude, should there be something else.
"Yeah." He can handle himself. It's just kind of cold out. A sideways glance cast over at the unoccupied tables, Deckard folds the paper over and sets to pushing it neatly down into the interior of his suit coat. "I'll let you know what I find." If he finds anything. In the wake of a few awkward seconds worth of hesitation, he turns to head for the door.
"Make sure that you do." Constantine doesn't add more to that, figuring that Deckard can add whatever he wants to in order to make the statement suitably urgent or threatening, whichever he prefers. Once the skinny fixer has made his exit, however, it's back to life, and worry, as usual. "Come on, Ranger." With a snorting sigh, the dog rises to his feet and follows his master out of the clinic proper and into the rest of the building, for although the doctor has no patients in plain view, he still has one to tend to, futilely, in his bedroom.
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