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| Scene Title | The Chicken and the Egg |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After getting his hands dirty, Rhys reviews his situation. |
| Date | November 7, 2011 |
A soft and lyricless rendition of either La Mer or Somewhere Beyond the Sea plays over the speakers inside a copper-gilded elevator. Numbers count up in blocks of black and red, and the sole patron of the elevator is reflected in the burnished brass plating of the doors. Rhys Bluthner is a young man, dressed as though he were among the wealthy elite, and standing in the shadow of their power. His crisp, burgundy three-piece suit is accented by a white undershirt, gold cufflinks, pointed-toe dress shoes. His hair is immaculately groomed, posture just so and shoulders squared. Everything about his appearance is precise and planned, not a lock of hair out of place or a sleeve rolled up too far.
Ding
Elevator doors slide open, splitting Rhys' reflection in half to reveal a cream-colored hallway of elaborately etched molding, plush red carpet, and gold-leaf filigree. Rhys' brows furrow and he lingers in the elevator for a moment. Then, angling his head to the side, he concentrates on a sensation that is somewhere beyond and somewhere beneath what he can see and hear. His brows twitch, eyes flick from side to side beneath their lids, and the corner of his mouth creeps up into a hesitate smile. Breathing in through his nose, he holds the breath, savors the freedom it represents. Then, exhaling a sigh, he wonders if anyone is watching.
Thirty Years Later
The Ruins of 36 Gramercy Park East
The soft and lilting call of starlings and sparrows echo up through an empty elevator shaft. Streaks of black soot line the elevator shaft walls, deep gouges where metal tore against metal, where industry failed and collapsed. A pair of battered old doors, once plated with brass but now just metal frames stripped of their material wealth rest crooked in the shaft's doorway. Rhys Bluthner feels older than he should be, dressed in a slouchy wool sweater riddled with holes and a loose pair of cotton pants, standing in the shadow of the past. His home-spun clothes are accented by a rawhide stitched courier bag that hangs heavy on his shoulder and a tarnished copper necklace bearing a symbol that looks roughly like a fish hook, or perhaps a musical note. His hair is swept back, gray at the temples, receding only just enough to make him look distinguished, just like his father. Everything about his appearance is precise and planned, not a lock of hair out of place or a sleeve rolled up too far.
Clank
Pushing the ruined doors out of the way, Rhys completes his ascent of the emergency ladder with aching joints and trembling extremities. He crawls out into a badly burned hallway, one wall completely blown out to reveal the desolate landscape of ruined skyscrapers and wind-swept dried riverbeds. Rhys' brows furrow, deeping creases of age and time and he lingers in view of the ruins for a moment. Then, angling his head to the side, he concentrates on a sensation that is somewhere beyond and somewhere beneath what he can see and hear. His brows twitch, eyes flick from side to side beneath their lids, and the corner of his mouth creeps up into a hesitate smile. Breathing in through his nose, he holds the breath, savors the freedom it represents. Then, exhaling a sigh, he sees the threads connecting past to future.
36 Gramercy Park East
Thirty Years Earlier
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Rhys walks out into the hall and passes by door after door. The muffled noise of conversations echo behind them, and the young man hesitates ever so subtly at each door to eavesdrop. A brow raises here, the corner of a lip cracks into a smile there, but nothing so salacious or intriguing to keep his interest for more than the rush of doing something naughty. He snorts out a small, amused laugh through his nose, and then continues on his walk until he reaches a door at the far end of the hall, flanked by two tall ferns.
Reaching one hand out of his pocket, Rhys gently raps a four-knock beat on the door. The door unlocks, the handle turns, even opens a smidge. Rhys takes a half step back, expecting there to be someone there. But, there isn't. Tucking his hand back into his pocket, Rhys closes his eyes again and reaches back. His eyes flick from side to side again, his thoughts sink down deep into the fabric of the room, the door, the room beyond. He looks for the signs and portents of passage, and dives deep into the metaphor of intentions.
36 Gramercy Park East
Thirty Years Later
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Rhys walks through the ruined hall and passes by doorway after doorway. The chirp and twitter of birds nesting in the high-rise ruin echoes from each branching pathway. But Rhys isn't listening to them, he's listening to something quieter. A brow raises here, the corner of a lip cracks into a smile there, but nothing so salacious or intriguing to keep his interest for more than the rush of doing something fun. He snorts out a small, amused laugh through his nose, and then continues on his walk until he reaches a doorway at the far end of the hall, flanked by two empty marble planters.
Reaching one hand out of his pocket, Rhys gently pushes the burned husk of the door out of the way, until it collapses to the floor and breaks apart into so much kindling. A cloud of dust billows where the door landed and, coughing, Rhys takes a half step back, expecting there to be someone there. But, there isn't. Tucking his hand back into his pocket, Rhys closes his eyes again and reaches back. His eyes flick from side to side again, his thoughts sink down deep into the fabric of the room, the door, the room beyond. He looks for the signs and portents of passage, and dives deep into the metaphor of intentions.
36 Gramercy Park East
Thirty Years Earlier
Beyond that door rests a wide office with a wall of tall, narrow windows. Seated at a mahogany desk clear of any clutter save for a single snow globe depicting a city landscape rests an intent-looking blonde woman with sculpted eyebrows and an expectant stare. At her side stands a younger man, darkly dressed and short brown hair, hands folded behind his back. "Mister Bluthner," the blonde woman explains with a gesture towards the room. "Please, do come in. We've been expecting you." Rhys hesitates, then slips into a guide like a skin and offers the woman a fondly practiced smile. He glides into the room with effortless gait, shutting the door quietly behind himself.
"Miss Shaw," Rhys chirps cheerfully, "you're looking radiant today. I expect you've heard the good news?" Alice Shaw reclines in her seat, hands folding in her lap as she makes a gesture to her aid. He raises a hand and places it to his brow in concentration. Then lowers the hand and gives an affirmative nod. Alice smiles, more comfortably now, and leans forward to rest her folded hands atop her desk.
"Why don't you tell me yourself?" Alice asks, a pleased smile crossing her face. "Now that we have some privacy."
36 Gramercy Park East
Thirty Years Later
As the dust settles, Rhys can more clearly see a wide office with a wall of tall, narrow window frames. Broken glass litters the floor, glittering in the warm light that spills in through the shattered frames. Seated at a mahogany desk cluttered with pieces of broken plaster and littered with shards of glass, is the mostly skeletal corpse of a human in tattered, threadbare clothing. Empty eye sockets stare vacantly at Rhys, and cords of sun-baked sinew and muscle mummified by heat and dry air keep the body upright and miraculously intact. "Miss Shaw," Rhys greets the skeleton, stepping over the broken splinters of the door, hands still tucked carefully into his pockets. Pausing, Rhys closes his eyes and concentrates again, listening to something until — abruptly — there is nothing more left to hear. But as they say, when God closes a door, he opens a window.
Rhys steps around the demolished desk, reaching up to unhook a necklace from the skeletal corpse. Picking it up, he dusts it off and reveals the shape of a symbol roughly analogous to a fish-hook or, perhaps, a music note. He curls it into the palm of his and and looks out one of the demolished window. Then, with a determined nod, he looks over to the doorway and understands.
36 Gramercy Park East
Thirty Years Earlier
"…and that's where we stand, presently." Rhys reclines back into his chair, across from Alice, one leg crossed over the other and hands folded in his lap. "We have less than twenty-four hours, and then I guess time to pray." Alice, having slouched back into her chair to wring her hands, looks up to Rhys with a searching expression. Leaning forward, she picks up a photograph and slides it across the desk towards Rhys face-down. As she does, a necklace sways from side to side around her neck, nearly touching the top of the desk.
Taking the photograph, Rhys turns it over in his hand and looks puzzled. "This…" his eyes narrow. "She wasn't on my list," his green eyes alight back to Alice in momentary uncertainty. "We didn't miss a single moment in history, it — " Alice smiles, mildly, and relaxes back against the creaking leather upholstery of her chair again.
"No, you didn't. You've been very competent." Looking to her aide, Alice makes a dismissive hand gesture and he moves to excuse himself from the room. Only once he's gone, does Alice look back to meet Rhys' silently expectant eyes. "She's something we'll need to discuss for the future. Her name is Joy," Alice inclines her head to Rhys, and the photograph of the dark-haired young woman.
"And we think she might be very special."