Stool Pigeon


christian_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Stool Pigeon
Synopsis Deckard leaves sanctuary long enough to take a personal call.
Date December 4, 2008


Staten Island. Deckard has been here long enough to burrow his way into the cinder block corpse of the abandoned elementary school he met Smith at a few weeks ago. No lights. No heating system. Just a lot of dark, empty rooms and desks still huddled into neat rows before broad black boards.

Breath fogging around the high-flipped collar of his overcoat, Deckard tracks aimlessly from one row to the next, then to the board, where broken bits of chalk still rest in the tray. Clean shaven and flat-haired, he could pass for a teacher, or even a parent come back to reminisce. If not for the sunglasses and the ringing cell phone, anyway.

The cheery jingle snaps him out of his poking around behind the teacher's desk, and he doesn't bother glancing to the phone before lifting it to his ear. "What?"

"Its Chris, I take it you heard about Felix. I wont ask where you are, but are you safe? I have secured a location, supplies and some documents for you. I think it is an extremely bad idea for you to stay out on your own."Chris was eating actually, well not while he was talking but now that he was listening he sure was.

"Fuck you," says Deckard, perhaps predictably. It's even a pretty heart-felt fuck you. Maybe a 7 on a scale that runs from 'annoyed' to 'I hope you fall into a volcano filled with razor blades and bees.' "You're out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm getting anywhere near you people."

"I'm not you people, I bought you breakfast. "he corrects quickly. "Things are complicated, its an intentional decision to make things look as skullfucked as they seem. I need those radios, and those revolvers from you Deckard. Your a high value individual, its in my best interests to ensure you survive the bit of chaos we're trying to use to scramble their intelligence. If you want to stay out, I understand your decision. Just tell me what supplies you need, and I'll supply you in a manner of your choosing."

"Don't fucking patronize me." There's a slam when Deckard's right hand shoves at an open drawer, rattling a few pencils and photographs that still stand across the desk. "I'm not in so deep that I don't have access to newspapers. I'm not going back to prison."

"Damn right your not going back to prison. Listen to me Deckard. I'm offering shelter and documents to keep you out of custody, if you want something else just ask. I dont want you arrested, I dont want you roughed up, I dont want you killed. You were Felix's go to guy, and I respected Felix. Your important to him, so your important to me. Tell me, what it is you want and I will do my very best to provide it."Which was the real deal, there was no small amount of sincerity there. He needed Deckard to get him things.

"You're a fucking fed. And an asshole. I don't want anything from you, and if you get anything else from me, it'll be in the fucking mail." For all his cleaning up, Deckard could probably still stand to have his mouth washed out with soap. The flash of his teeth and the furrow of his brow is clear in the bite of his voice across the line, and he paces his way quickly over to the nearest window to glower out of it. "I don't have what Felix wanted. If all you want is a couple of fucking radios, fine. Text me an address and I'll see what I can do. Then you leave me the fuck alone. I'm a little preoccupied."

"I'm not that kind of fed, I dont arrest people. How about this Deckard. You do whatever it is you do, and if you want to talk to me I've texted you a phone number. You dont owe me anything, alright?"cool and calm as ever. "I'm not here to give you shit, I'm here to accomplish my mission. If you want to help with that, hey thats great. I appreciate it, if you dont then thats entirely alright too. In the mean time, you have the shopping list still? You tell me what you want from me, you tell me how you want to do business. I need you, you dont need me."an honest admission if there ever was one.

"You're not that kind of fed, and I'm not that kind of felon. So I can trust you completely and there's no need to plaster my photograph all over the evening news. I'm glad we got that cleared up." Spine and shoulders rigid, Deckard sweeps a look through the room and rooms around him, then lifts his free hand to cup the glove briefly over his nose and mouth. It's cold. "I don't have any idea what your mission is. You do what you do and I'll do what I do and with any luck, I won't wind up any more fucked than I already am. Okay?"

"I have nothing to do with that, Deckard. If I was after you, dont you think I'd be having this conversation face to face? My mission, is to stop people like Sylar from getting people like me thrown into a furnace. If people only see one side of the issue, then thats the only side they'll believe alright? Now tell me, what I can do to help you. Do you need a clean gun, a car for a few days? If you get caught, I cant unhook you. If you get caught, I loose my ability to get what I need without my boss knowing about it. Your important to me free, and worthless if your jailed or dead. "Chris pauses to sniffle there."Your not a Felon, your a dude like me and Felix. A guy who's tryna get by, and do the right thing when he can."

"Oh my god," Deckard laments. Laments. He almost sounds pained. "Did you practice that in front of a fucking mirror? I thought you were some kind of double machine-gun wielding hardass and they dragged you out of the back of a fucking shopping mall somewhere—" this unflattering line of speculation just sort of goes on, begging for interruption.

"Gee wiz, dipshit. Your right, I'm lying. I'm actually in it because your the only man alive who hasnt been brain hacked by the shape changing reptilian overlords. Christ, see this is why I'm never fucking honest with anybody. I finally fucking tell somone exactly how simple shit is, and I got this shit. So tell me Deckard, how the -fuck- do you want me to prove my sincerity. Felix tells me your a reliable guy to get shit for me, and your his CI. I go out of my way to keep you clear of a fucking murder investigation and bend over backwards to be a nice guy. You wanna act like a fucking dipshit, you sonuvvabitch then hey thats cool. Do me a favor and ask yourself, if I was tryna bust your ass. Why didnt I bug your fucking phone, and if I like secretely did it why aint I there right now rather than tryna hide you from the fucking cops? Go on professor, criminal fucking mastermind tell me how the fuck that math works." Anger, yeah theres just a touch. He may have broken Deckard's glasses, again if the pair were in the flesh.

Silence. One might almost imagine Deckard looking over his shoulder, and then up through the ceiling. No rope ladders. No helicopters. No riot gear or tear gas. "Felix is dead," he says after a longer pause than is really necessary. All the mirth has been rung out of his voice, and he reaches up to pull his collar more snugly about his neck and ears. "You can't keep your own people alive. Nevermind their stool pigeons."

"Felix was not my people, he was my friend and my comrade. I wasnt in charge of him, I never tried to protect Felix. He went and did what he did all alone, all by himself. Your a street wise guy, Deckard considering the people who didn't like Felix. Was it smart, to play solo G-man?" he lets that hang in the air, cooling his own nerves with a gulp of coffee gone cold. Blech..

"I'm not playing solo. I'm just not on your team," Deckard corrects, temper cooled back to a sarcastic simmer by the time he's dropped himself down into one of the student desks at the front of the class. It's small. He isn't. "Don't worry, though. They're every bit as incompetent as you are."

"Thats alright, thats why I said you can stay out. I trust your sense of self-preservation, all I'm offering is help. Tell me what I can do to help you, and I'll try to do it. If the best thing for you, is just to remain an option then thats ok too. "he ponders coffee, peering at his mug then to the pot. Ugh…decisions.

Deckard's legs stretch well out beyond the confines of the under desk space, then bend beneath it so that he can slump himself over the flat of fake wood and plastic suspended before him. Crappy posture. "I don't think you can help me. Not unless you have a sister that's a hooker." He sighs, and the exhalation creeps damp across the cold desk surface. "Send me your number. I'll be in touch if I think of anything. If I catch you following me or you pop out of a fucking cake somewhere, this ends in bullet holes, okay?"

"That's fair. If you're up, I can provide you with a shopping list and my phone number in text format. Do you have a way I can get a grand in small bills to you, for living expenses." And just like that, he seems to have come to an understanding. Cold coffee wins, by virtue of its closeness. Not that he doesnt eye the pot from across the room, why cant he have a useful ability.

"Provide me with whatever you want. Just don't expect any miracles in return." Chin rested in the crook of his arm, Deckard turns his wrist around enough to get a clear look at his watch. "No physical drops unless I can think of a way to do it where you can't fuck this up for me somehow."

"I understand Deckard, I hope you have a pleasant evening. I'll send my shopping list, hit me back with a quote as soon as you can. Alright?"He'll give Deckard a moment or two, and barring any additional comments he kills his radio patch and sets the phone down."Christ, what an ass."

"Rodger Dodger," sayeth Deckard in a bored voice. Boop. The connection is closed, and the device is dropped down onto the desk with a clatter. One more glance at his watch, and he remains where he is, slumped across the desk like a dead body. Time to spare before he needs to return to home base.

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