Taking The Piss


felix_icon.gif montag_icon.gif

Scene Title Taking The Piss
Synopsis In which Felix gets IRL trolled by The Company for saving New York.
Date February 9, 2008

Not far from the Owl…

Fel….well, arguably this is his fifteen minutes of fame. Which is sort of inconvenient, really. Not that it amounts to much. A few invites to political parties. A lot of annoyed looks from his co-workers at SCOUT. All in all, not quite a hill of beans. So he's tired and thoughtful as he leaves the Owl, clad in his dark overcoat, head ducked against the chill wind. It's bitingly cold, and the streets are nearly empty. Like a Hopper painting, really. He doesn't seem to be heading anywhere in particular - not towards the nearest subway entrance, anyhow.

At some point in the course of this forward progress, the rhythm of Felix's footfalls is broken by the addition of a longer, potentially more lax stride somewhere well behind his left shoulder. A leggy man in a grey suit and no coat dawdles along in Ivanov's shadow, blisteringly out of place in most any painting meant to be taken at all seriously. He does not announce himself, but remains in persistently being very much there.

Fel doesn't try to keep skulking along. He turns and faces his follower directly, making no particular secret of his scrutiny, as he eyes the man - the glare of the streetlamp he's under turns the lenses of his glasses into pale orange moons, opaque and unrevealing. "Yes?" he says.

Montag is, by contrast, utterly transparent. Suspiciously so, even. A cruelly placed glass pane in a maze of mirrors, perhaps.

He is tall, and thin to point of gauntness, elbows out at an awkward angle away from his sides when he slows to a stop. The street lamp colors him orange as well, lank hair white or blonde under the harsh light, eyes grey. He's smirking. Or — he was up until Felix turned. Now he's trying very hard to look serious, and not quite succeeding. "Ah — yes. Sorry. I was just thinking — you aren't Felix Ivanov, are you?"

Fel's brow furrows at that. Well, Montag doesn't have any obvious brickbats in hand, so he's likely not going to try and stone Felix for being a freak. "Yes," he affirms, and leaves it at that, still eyeing Montag expectantly. "Why?" Stupid picture, stupid paper, stupid medal whose hypocrisy will haunt him until his dying day.

"M'name's Eddie. Or — well. Yes, it is Eddie. Sorry, it's a bit awkward, you know, just." Stalking him. But if there's anything Montag does well, it is awkwardness, intentional or otherwise. "I'm not a crazy person or anything. Just thought I'd say hullo. Good work saving all those people."

There's the rapid flick, flick, flick of Fel trying to assess this guy's sincerity, gaze roaming the other man's face. "That's kind of you to say," he says, matter of factly. "Though what you see in the papers wasn't accurate. I was a convenient front. It was a huge effort and there are lot of people who deserved the medal more."

He's definitely British, in addition to everything else. He oozes it in stereotypical quantities. Whether or not he's sincere is more difficult to gauge. He's successfully shaken any last glimmer of amusement he might have been harboring, but there is something inherently suspicious about the way he rocks lax on his heels and doesn't actually fidget terribly much for all that he professes to be quite nervous in his dialogue. "A front?" Montag is puzzled! Lines of puzzlement twist into place between his brows. "There's no need to be modest, Agent Ivanov. I mean, really — play it down too much and you might hurt someone's feelings."

"Listen, is there something I can do for you?" Felix offers, still polite, though there's that quizzical wrinkle to his forehead. He's being made fun of, somehow, he's sure of it. "I'm….I've got work tomorrow, and I really shouldn't linger," It's not snowing -much- now, but there's loose snow blowing from somewhere, stray flakes that catch on his coat, hair, dwindle to drops on the lenses of his glasses. He's still bizarrely something out of time, with that air of smooth-faced earnestness. Like someone froze an Agent from the era when Hoover was still in charge, and just thawed him out now.

"Oh — no. No. I'm sorry to've kept you. Wouldn't do for you to be all bleary-eyed on your next foray into the dark criminal underbelly of the city." That would be terrible! "Pity they didn't give you the day off, though. I suppose you don't really get days off when you're an action hero." Montag muses more to himself, one bare hand spidering out of its respective pocket to sweep back through the lank of his hair. "A superhero, I should say, what, with the powers and all. Did you literally manage to dodge any bullets? Just — inquiring minds, you know."

Fel shakes his head. "I'm not a hero of any kind," he insists. "No, I don't dodge bullets. I'm just somewhat faster than most humans," he says, grinning, rather grudgingly. "Honestly, I'm just a cop. Really." He still has that puzzled, helpful expression, like a dog that's being issued commands in another language.

A glance is spent down at the snow accumulating across his shoulders, and Gavin draws in a deep breath, rather as if basking in the nobility of Felix's humility. When he exhales his inevitable sigh, there is no fog. "Your humility astounds me, truly." His brow knits another notch or two, and for half a second, he looks as though he might laugh. "As a city, we can only hope that other law enforcement officers might have the courage to follow your example in the face of future adversity."

There's no point Fel can pin it on, that certainty he's being mocked. He certainly doesn't look impressive - like a clerk on his night off, rather than a square-jawed action hero. "I'm not being modest," he says, a sort of disgust creeping into his face. "Just truthful. I'm sort of the token minority they can pat on the head."

"Nooo," says Montag with…perhaps a little too enthusiastically. "No," is tried again, more reassuring this time. "You did the right thing and you deserve to be celebrated for it. So many people don't, you know. To be honest, it's an honor just to be standing here. With you. Not to be — unnecessarily…creepy. Sorry. I shouldn't've—"

"It's fine," Felix says, quietly. "I wish the people who actually did deserve it got credit, is all. I tried to tell them, but no one'd listen to me."

When Felix doesn't go running off at that, Montag is left at something of a loss, chest rising and falling slowly over a breath that's deathly absent against the air around him. The man is unshakable. "All the same," clearly it's time to move on to something even more embarrassing, "could I have your autograph?"

Well, let's blame Fel's lack of perception on being flustered at the idea that he's any kind of hero, or celebrity. "I'm gonna have to decline. I'm not anyone special," he says, and then his frown gets a little more intent. "What's your trick?" he wonders. "Temperature manipulation? Or are you actually here?"

What a strange question to ask a person. 'Are you actually here?' Montag is caught off guard again, although not nearly so far as before. He is in a suit, after all, and it's snowing. "The second one," is decided after a pause too wary to be anything other than carefully considered. "Actually, I'm your conscience."

"No, you're not," Felix says, grinning despite himself. "You're not saying anything about the dead guys on the roof. Try the other one, it has bells on. Seriously, what do you want?"

"To say hullo and how great you are and all of that business," which he's done a damn fine job of, if he does say so himself. "Tell me, do you often see people that aren't actually present?"

"Not since they worked out the balances in my medication, no," Fel deadpans. He might be kidding. Actually, he's not. "I notice that you're cold enough that your breath isn't condensing, though," he points out. "How's that work?"

Montag chuckles, low and deep in his throat. It's an unfriendly, dirty old man sort of laugh. One that speaks purely. Of ill-intentions and malicious humor. Possibly death as well, but not so much tonight. The Fed might be crazy. Somehow that makes everything that much more entertaining. "I dunno. I suppose we can have a chat about it if I should ever find myself under Federal employ."

The Fed is crazy. It's just under control. But he's still got the badge and the gun. At least he's not convinced it's actually Los Angeles, ten years later, and that the people he's seeking are all replicants. His lip curls a little. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry," he says, at at least an attempt at apology.

"No, you shouldn't. It's very rude." A near second laugh is subdued into a near snort instead, with even that played down by the abrupt hood of his brow that follows. He is serious. Serious Montag, and prying is very very rude and Felix should clearly be ashamed of himself.

It's on his lips to ask Montag what he would say if he were his conscience. Because life is just that surreal."What's so funny?" he asks, unoffended. Not standing on dignity, but genuine curiosity.

"S'nothing funny about this at all. Maybe I'm just disappointed I didn't get an autograph. Hint of the sniffles." The gawky man's brows tip up at each other, effortlessly patronizing while he takes a step back. Curiosity aimed back in his direction means it may be time to flee.

"You're laughing at me," Felix insists. Still no hurt there, just a wish to be in on the joke.

"Starting to sound a little paranoid there, lovie. Maybe I'm not here after all." Playing the crazy card again might be counterproductive to Montag's escape, but some temptations are more difficult to resist than others.

Without asking if Montag minds if he smokes or not, Fel pulls a worn pewter cigarette case from his pocket, plucks a black cigarette from it. "Professional hazard," he opines, as he finds a zippo in another pocket, clicks it open.

"Rightfully so," agrees Montag, successfully avoiding any outward sign of mirth through his next couple of backwards steps. Then he turns with clear intent to retreat in full. Maybe he really hates cigarettes.

The flame momentarily graves starker lines on Fel's features. He's obviously watching Montag go, not turning away to his own path untl the older man is entirely out of sight.

Montag drifts down the street's length with all the haste of a well-fed lion on its way to a noon nap. Eventually he finds a corner to wind around and vanishes, light snowflakes stirring whimsically in his wake. He does not reappear.

February 9th: When The Shadows Get Too Friendly
February 9th: Be A Rat
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License