Participants:
| Scene Title | That's Not Quite How It Works |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Elle quizzes Milton on his stabbing. Just the facts, ma'am. |
| Date | September 19, 2010 |
St. Luke's Hospital is known for its high-quality care and its contributions to medical research. Its staff place an emphasis on compassion for and sensitivity to the needs of their patients and the communities they serve. In addition to nearby Columbia University, the hospital collaborates with several community groups, churches, and programs at local high schools. The associated Roosevelt Hospital offers a special wing of rooms and suites with more amenities than the standard hospital environment; they wouldn't seem out of place in a top-rated hotel. That said, a hospital is a hospital — every corridor and room still smells faintly of antiseptic.
Having stalked away from his debate with Lola in a miff, Milton has returned to his room and is lying on his bed in pyjamas and dressing gown, looking and feeling as bored as hell. A small TV set is attempting to entertain him with a daytime game show, but not succeeding to any noticeable extent.
The clicking of heels can be heard approaching down the hall. It is right as the game show is going into a commercial break that the door swings open to reveal a petite brunette woman. Elle Bishop is wearing a grey dress-suit today, with a pencil skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket, and carrying one of her ever-stylish purses; on her feet are a pair of killer high heels.
The woman steps in with a soft click-click, closing the door behind her and peering over Milton with a small frown. "Milton Kreisler, I presume." She doesn't wait to be invited closer, instead moving up to the man with a confident stride and extending her hand in greeting, the other hand pulling out a nice, shiny Homeland Security badge. "I'm Agent Elle Bishop, HomeSec."
So much for Milton's fervent wish for something to happen to make him less bored. Sometimes, we get what we wish for. His heart lurches as if trying to dodge the memory of the knife that put him here in hospital and he looks up at Elle through suddenly fearful eyes, wondering if this is where his new-found ability is revealed and if he's to be judged upon it. "Uh, w-what can I do for you?" he asks.
The petite woman examines the man's reaction with a raised brow; after a moment, Elle takes a step away from Milton, tucking the badge into her purse. "I had some questions for you, Mister Kreisler, regarding the incident on Wednesday, September 15th. I was there, myself, and saw some of what happened, but I was only one of many perspectives." She reaches into her purse once more, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. "So, let's start from the beginning. If you could tell me everything that you can recall, I'd appreciate it. Then I'll ask my questions."
Milton blinks a couple of times, collecting his thoughts. "Well, let's see. I was sitting over at the counter. I don't think there were many people in the diner. Old couple in one corner, couple of women, couple of men, one waitress on, cook lurking at the back… I wasn't paying too much attention. I was looking at… some stuff I was writing." He pauses, like Shakespeare's Brutus, for a reply.
No response comes from the electric brunette, whom is jotting down notes as Milton speaks. As Elle finishes whatever it is she's writing, blue eyes lift from the paper to Milton, brows raising. She crosses her legs, and nods slowly. "Continue." She watches him, waiting with the pen pressed to the paper in anticipation of writing once more.
Thus prompted, Milton goes on. "Well. All of a sudden it was as if… as if… This sounds nuts but it was like I had a premonition of what was going to happen. I suddenly was gripped by the most intense fear. Really unpleasant. So much so that I got up… I think I knocked my chair over…"
The woman nods slowly, jotting out more notes. "What you felt was what I believe to be an empath, or someone with a branch of that ability. I've encountered them before, and some are able to manipulate emotions in intense ways. You weren't the only one effected; everyone else in the diner was also gripped by that same fear that you felt." She then nods, finished with her notes. "Go on."
"Well," Milton begins, then pauses. How can he phrase this without giving himself away? For all he knows, this woman watched him being stabbed, saw him freeze up in shock as his vision went from present to past. "I picked up a knife, to defend myself, yes? But then I kind of froze up. All of a sudden. And the next thing I knew was, this voice in my ear saying… 'You know my secret'. Or something. And then — then he /licked/ my ear." Milton pulls a face of disgust. "And then he stabbed me. I didn't realise for a second or two…"
"Did you see any distinguishing features of this man who stabbed you? A detailed description would be quite helpful." Elle is scribbling even as she asks her question, her eyes flitting from his face to her paper and back again. "He dropped the weapon, but we haven't been able to find his prints in our databases." Once she's done scribbling, she leans back slightly, giving off a more casual air as she taps the pen against the notepad.
Milton flushes a little. "Not really… I was too taken aback. And I had a pair of sunglasses on." Careful, Milton, don't talk about that part too much. "I have an idea he was quite short, but I… couldn't say much more than that."
The woman arches a brow at Milton's flushed features, inclining her head toward him as she scribbles something down. "Are you certain you can't remember anything about his face?" Elle taps the pen against the pad once more, chewing on her lip. Damn, no face yet. "And is there anything else you could potentially tell me? Did you see anyone leave?"
"N… no. I fell over," Milton excuses himself. "I thought I was dying…" He's not enjoying this interrogation at all.
Elle frowns a bit, nodding slowly as she scribbles again. Then, she reaches into her purse, pulling out a business card and setting it on the table by his bed. "If you can recall anything about what happened, please give me a call. I'd like to help catch the man who did this to you." She gestures briefly toward his stomach.
Milton takes the card with a cautious air, and looks at the name on it. Then he asks the jackpot question. "You said you were there. You didn't see him yourself, then?"
Elle blinks a few times, running her hand through her brunette hair. "I caught glimpses, but not enough to get a good idea of his appearance." She frowns. "Don't worry, Mister Kreisler, we'll do our best to find the man who stabbed you."
"Thanks," Milton says, but there's one more thing worrying him. "Uh. What — How do you figure that this guy is a, what do you call it? Empath? Because if he is, and if he's going round stabbing people… won't that make him feel their pain? Or is that not how it works?" He turns an innocent, questioning look on the agent. The look of a man who has no idea at all of how such things work, no idea at all, honestly. Even if his name is on a register as being Evolved (Level Zero, Talent Unspecified.)
Elle tilts her head. "That's not quite how it works." She glances down at her pad thoughtfully. "Empathy is an ability to make others feel things. I've met one before — It's not pleasant in the slightest. They can manipulate fear, anger, even enjoyment." Suddenly, a large frown forms over her face, her eyes unfocusing briefly as she seems to recall something. She shakes it off, however, frowning to Milton. "I should let you rest and heal."
Milton doesn't fail to note that sudden change in her features, and files it quietly away in his memory without commenting. "I'm not doing badly," he volunteers. "They said they'd let me go home tonight. You've got my address, right, I gave it to that cop I spoke to on the night it happened?"
The electric brunette nods slowly, turning and making her way toward the door. She pauses, turning to look at Milton. "Yes, I have your address. I hope you heal well, and I'll remain in contact with you, as will the police. If you can remember anything that will help, then please, call me." She raises a hand. "Goodbye, Mister Kreisler." And without letting him get in another word, she's gone.
Milton is left with a thoughtful expression on his face. That expression remains there even as he signs the myriad discharge forms for the hospital, rides the subway back into Brooklyn, and returns at last to his tiny apartment.