The Benevolence of Uncle Sam


magnes_icon.gif vincent_icon.gif

Scene Title The Benevolence of Uncle Sam
Synopsis On Saturday morning, Magnes gets to experience it firsthand.
Date November 14, 2009


It's six o'clock and all is well.

Six o'clock in the morning, that is. The sky overhead is painted in shades of warm orange faded across pastel blue, the sun itself not yet hot or bright enough to lift at the fog settled in thick through the barren streets of Chelsea's north side. Wispy cloud cover feathered in light overhead promises rain.

But rain is really of little consequence to people who happen to be capable of turning into smoke, and Vincent has no intention of remaining out here long enough for the clouds to thicken and rot black anyway. He's smoking himself while he waits, black overcoat drawn up warm around the shoulders of a charcoal suit that's only a shade or two lighter. Gloved hands tucked deep into his pockets and badge agleam somewhere around the region of his belt, he glances once to his watch before turning to survey the barrier before Midtown a black or two away at his back.

In this part of the city, months and months after the bomb, rebuilding really has yet to begin. Vacant buildings slouch warped and corroded into each other, crusts of mortar and brick tumbled loose into the street to mingle with occasional shows of twisted rebar and an old van with party balloons peeling in their paintjobs across broad white flanks.

Magnes is not one to mysteriously meet anyone, even a cop, without doing a pretty thorough sweep to make sure the area at least seems sniper free, which mostly involves checking the rooftops and open windows that seem like vantage points. But after he's done with that bit of paranoia, he's walking from an alley, wearing his faded Batman shirt, a black denim jacket, some loose-fitting blue jeans, and a pair of black sneakers.

He walks up behind Vincent, hands in his pockets, then tilts his head. "Yes Sir?"

Not entirely unaccustomed to the idea of unannounced entrances, being rather fond of them himself, Vincent still can't keep himself from turning a little sharply after the scuff of Magnes's shoes at his back. And the sound of his voice. For less time than it takes to blink, there's an unfocused blur around the sweep of his trailing shoulder.

"Morning, Magnes." Then he's resolved himself to tug his cigarette away and offer a hand, as formal as he is inscrutable in the sweep of his serious black eyes up and down Magnes's person. No glasses today.

"I hope you'll forgive me for being uncharacteristically clandestine, but I thought we'd both be better served by having this interaction away from prying ears and eyes."

Magnes tilts his head after giving a shake of average firmness. He's obviously curious now. "Good morning. So, man, you're like, doing under the radar stuff? I'd ask why you're bringing me into it, but it's probably obvious that I don't have a high opinion of people who worry about PR instead of actions." he theorizes as he gives his take on the situation, then finally goes quiet to listen.

"You could say that," deferred with a smile that's nearly made more genuine by the fact that he tries to suppress it, Vincent keeps his own grip firm, gloved hand still warm from time spent hidden away in his coat. "Nothing to worry about. Nothing very serious, I should say." Depending upon your definition of certain words like 'serious.' But isn't that nearly always the case when it comes to written law?

"I appreciate your willingness to meet me here at this hour. As you know…" A long drag on the cigarette sees it rolled over into the corner of his mouth to allow for easier speech and he says again (smokily this time,) "As you know, your days with the NYPD are numbered in the wake of the incident with Glenn Beck and — other discrepancies we needn't go into. Nevermind. While the establishment here is unwilling to give you more rope to hang yourself with, I think you'll find that Uncle Sam is a little more flexible."

Magnes crosses his arms. He's being secretly recruited by the government! Wait… deja vu. "Depending on which section of Uncle Sam this is, uh, it might get just a tad complicated. But I'll hear you out and tell you what I think. After that, we can get into the specifics of what I'm supposed to be doing. That work?" he asks, staying fairly casual about it. People have tried to recruit him for things before, so he's getting a bit wiser about handling such a situation.

"Of course. Some concerns on your end are to be expected and I will address any and all questions you have as soon as — " the shorter man is shuffling absently around in his overcoat, now, a small brown notebook eventually withdrawn so that he can glance over the contents, "you answer a few simple questions for me. They’re a little tedious, but standard procedure. You understand, I'm sure." He sounds sure, anyway, not even bothering to look up in search of confirmation one way or the other while he reads and smokes and turns the page with a fleet flick of one gloved thumb.

"Have you made any undocumented excursions out of the United States in the last year?"

"Other than the Shibuya Incident? No, I don't make it a habit to fly out of the country, though I planned to a few times, never had time." Magnes stares at the notebook curiously, but stands as he patiently waits to answer each question.

"Good news," says Vincent, mild as ever while he skims over the rest and closes the book on up, presumably already having committed whatever else he needs to know to memory. It's tucked back into his coat from wherever he withdrew it, past the immaculate knot of his striped tie and the flawless flip of his collar. "Please describe your current living situation, and any friends, relatives, roommates or tenants that you may be residing with."

"Well," Magnes gives that a bit of thought as he taps his chin. He lives above a pizza shop, so that question can be complicated! "I live above Panucci's Pizza, but no one else lives there. Mister Panucci owns the place. It's pretty much a glorified bedroom with a large closet and a bathroom. I use the stove in the back of the shop to cook, that's the employee stove, I used to work there for a few years, they trust me."

"Sounds like a good arrangement for you. Better than what I was living in when I was your age." Gloved hands fallen back into an easy rest in his coat pockets, Vincent looks Magnes over appraisingly now. It's an odd sensation, watching the way the matte black of his eyes sweep from head to toe and limb to limb as he might ply around through the pried open mouth of a mule. "Is anyone else aware that you intended to meet me here?"

"No, though I usually call my girlfriend before my shift starts, didn't see the point since this wasn't really going to work." Magnes asks, eyes starting to shift around, surveying the area just a tad suspiciously now.

"I see." That could potentially be problematic. Although not hugely so. It’s certainly not significant enough to keep Vincent from drawing an oddly clunky-looking tranquilizer gun from his pocket to shoot Magnes in the bare of his neck at point blank range. There's a little poff of cold gas and the sting of the needle through skin and muscle and Vincent flicks his cigarette aside into the fog.

He checks his watch again. The effects of the sedative are near instantaneous. Already, it's weaving lead into Varlane's limbs. Blurring at his vision, fuzzing his hearing, if not quite enough to blot out Lazzaro's bored-sounding, "What's her name?"

Dropping to his knees, and instinctively softening a fall with his face turned to the side, Lazzaro's last words are met with his fingers weekly moving as if he's going to do something, but instead it's simply him giving the finger. When he slips into unconsciousness, he starts to float a bit off the ground as his body rejects gravity completely.

"Rude," observed with a hint of an unspoken tut, Vincent nudges the drift and float of Magnes's unconscious form with the shiny black toe of his dress shoe. Right around the same time he pockets the dart gun and reaches for his cell phone instead, the party van parked some ways down the street spills open at his back, letting loose the covey of black suits that had been roosting quietly inside up until now.

“He’ll be down for at least an hour,” is the only thing Lazzaro has to say to the clutter and jog of approaching agents, all ready and willing to haul Varlane into the gawping black interior of the patyvan’s abdomen. “I need to get into the office or I’m going to be late. If you encounter any unanticipated contention, you know who to call.”

Then he’s off, dress shoes clipping quick along cracked concrete in one direction as he pinches a tiny receiver out of his ear and the agents in black nudge Magnes’s felled form along in the other like an air hockey puck.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License