Participants:
| Scene Title | The Gig of a Lifetime |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | When Robyn Quinn's world comes crumbling down around her, she can always count on a friend to be there. |
| Date | September 27, 2015 |
Robyn's Apartment
Manhattan
It has not been a good few weeks.
«Authorities are saying that it is the largest coverup in modern history since the revelation of the Company in 2009.»
The lights are off in Robyn Quinn’s apartment, blinds drawn to hide the glittering illumination of the New York skyline. The only illumination in her spacious living room comes from the television, which has been glued to cable news stations for going on three weeks. None of what comes and goes from the news broadcasts has been helpful, or good, but Robyn has been unable to turn away from the train wreck that her life has become in a few short days.
«Today the Justice Department confirmed the discovery of forty-seven bodies of government contractors in the Utah Desert outside of the now decommissioned Moab Federal Penitentiary. The bodies were mutilated in an attempt to hide their identities. Among the dead were over 200 scattered and dismembered remains that authorities believe may have been prisoners at the penitentiary.»
Between Robyn and the television a glass-topped coffee table is littered with the grave markers of good choices; bottles of beer and wine stand monument to the past few weeks, with scattered corks and bottlecaps likewise littering the space where empty boxes of takeout and dirty chopsticks reign.
«White House Press Secretary Tracy Strauss told reporters today that the Moab Federal Penitentiary was a decommissioned prison once used to house suspected terrorists shortly following the 2001 terror attack in New York City. President Mitchell is claiming ignorance over the prison’s operation and the individuals involved. However, the White House has promised to do everything within its power to find and punish those responsible.»
Slouched back on her sofa, Robyn Quinn watches her world burn through the twenty-four hour news cycle. Her phone on the coffee table has 337 missed calls and 1,257 new text messages, accruing roughly one of each every hour from news and media contacts looking to her for a statement. At first it wasn’t exhausting, but now… now it’s just impossible to manage.
«We now go live to our White House Correspondent, West Rosen, for analysis of the Press Secretary’s conference.»
She had sent Elaine away the moment the news had broke. The moment she'd been faced with everything she'd come to know in the last several years crumbling. She knew this was going to bad - and she didn't know what, exactly, might come out about her and her activities amongst this immense shitshow.
"West fuckin' Rosen," Robyn grumbles as she stares at the TV. It's probably the most she's said in hours. "Why don't y' get fucked with rusty spoon, y' fop." The words are barely audible over the clinking of a bottle as she sets it down on the table in front of her. Much of what's being on the shared on the news - well, not all of it is a surprise, at least. Or even unknown to her.
But it's all a new, special kind of hell.
That's part of what makes fielding all of this overwhelming response so hard for her. How long would it be before it all turned on her, too? How deep was this going to dig?
The sound of a knock at her door changes all perspective, draws attention away from the young White House correspondent on the screen and to the less-reviled voice that emanates from the hall outside. “Ey! It’s Else, c’mon open th’ fuck up, I know yer’ just drinkin’ an’ gettin’ high in there an’ that’s not what friends do.”
There’s a beat of a pause.
“Frien’s share.” Else Kjelstrom, profound advocate of sharing is caring.
Slowly, Robyn's eyes drift to the door, wrinkling her nose at the sound of Else's voice. She stares for a long moment, considering her options. Ultimately, she decided to rise from where she's become embedded in the couch, a long and tortured sigh issuing from her lips as she does.
"Y' know, Else, y'got 'bout th' worst timin' could ever hope t' have." She doesn't make any attempt to sound happy about her friends arrival, but it's not like anyone could blame her. And if they did, well… Robyn Quinn is known for being persuasive, both with words and other means.
"Y'r alone, yeah?" Looking out the peephole seems to confirm that, so the door is unlatched and opened just enough for Else to squeeze in.
“No I've got Andy an’all his bloody hootin’ friends spillin’ fuckin’ Champagne inna’ hallway all quiet like,” comes from the other side of the door, where Robyn sees Else alone with a closed bottle of champagne in a paper bag.
“Of course it's just fuckin’ me.” Else adds just in case. Because this is why they're friends.
The expression Robyn gives Else as she steps in is the flattest one she can. Normally this exchange might end in a laugh and an offer to get glasses, but this time she isn't feeling the humour. It's a bit a miracle she doesn't shut the door on Else, though she does letr out an egregiously over dramatic sigh.
"Y'know damn well what I mean, 'less y'been living under a rock." She eyes Else as she opens the door the rest of the way, motioning her inside. "Shame y'didn't stop by 'fore 'Lainey left. She would've liked t'see ya." Door closed once Else is in, Robyn turns back to her, head slightly cocked and an eyebrow raised.
"What brings ya t' my end a' the fuckin' world party, love?"
“Pfsh,” is Else’s diplomatic response as she shoves the bagged champagne bottle into Robyn’s arms on her way in the door. “It ain’t the end of the bloody world, you’ve just lost a shit job.” Her dark eyes angle up to Robyn at that, while she makes herself at home and tugs off her flats and lets them fall to the floor one by one with loud thumps on the hardwood.
“You an’ a desk job, being some big corporate pish posh or someshit ain’t ever been the true you,” Else dismisses the notion of Pinehearst’s relevance with a wave of one hand, making her way pointedly over to the sofa to bend down and pick up the remote and change the channel to — National Geographic, as it turns out. There’s koalas.
Turning around, Else brandishes the remote like a gun at Robyn. “Go get me a fuckin’ glass for that champagne — no, two — an’ it best be a flute an’ not a fuckin’ mason jar you insufferable hipster.” There’s a feigned roll of her eyes at that, and an expectant crossing of her arms.
Every single instinct Robyn has is to contest that assertion - but that would be playing her hand, and she's learned better than that over the last several years. Instead, she gives Else a dark look and her own roll of the eyes, shaking her head as she departs for the kitchen. "It's not like I stopped makin' music an' what not," she offers back over the clinking of glass.
"If I wanted t'put up with another round a' lock-hard I'd call 'Lainy up again. An' what the hell's got y'so get up an' go anyway?" When Robyn reemerges, it with several tall, fancy champagne glasses - proper flutes, the rims possessing gold colouring with fancy script letters on each one. She has five, and each one she sets down one after the other in front of Else.
"An' fuck you," has a bit more levity to it, "just 'cause I still see th' market in vinyl an' you don't doesn't mean I'm a fuckin hipster." But, she turns the letters to Else, set in order to spell out R - O - B - Y - N.
Not a hipster, but definitely vain.
“You own more flannel than a lumberjack,” Else insists as she snatches up the champagne bottle and peels off the foil, twisting the wire cage back. She scans the room for a moment, snatching a towel off of the kitchen table and carefully wraps the bottle in it before popping the cork out. Jubilant laughter fills the air after that, and she quickly fills both her flute and Robyn’s with frothing champagne.
“Th’ fuckin’ reason m’so fuckin’ chuffed is because,” Else sets the bottle of champagne down and picks up the flute, “the Shattered Fuckin’ skies was just invited t’play the fuckin’ Midtown Memorial this year, an’ if you’d listened to a single fuckin’ voicemail me an’ your producer ‘ave breathlessly left you, y’d know that!” But Robyn isn’t a member of the Shattered Skies, and that seems to be what has Else toe-stepping in and tinking her glass to Robyn’s.
“They want us t’do the show together, stuff from both of our libraries, yeah? An’ both our labels want it t’kick off an inter-fucking-national tour.” Brown eyes glitter with excitement, and Else is practically more bubbly than the champagne. “They were a bit fuckin’ hesitant t’sign you on given the bloody givens, but I told them who isn’t gonna’ want t’see you strutting on stage in spite of the fuckin’ world bein’ on fire?”
clink
Despite that, Robyn stands still, staring at Else as if absolutely shell shocked by what she's just told her. "I- y'r serious?" Once upon a time, something like this had been a dream of hers, before she'd set it aside for a life of office work with a side of hedonism and violence. Fingers tighten around her glass, eyes flicking down to it for a moment.
"Y'know by then I could be-" in jail is the rest of that sentence, but she doesn't let that quite roll of her tongue because really Else is one of the few people she wouldn't want to burden with that knowledge. "Voicemail's been full an' y'can fuckin' guess why. An' I mean, m'last album didn't exactly set th' world on fire, Else. Y'heard it, right? I tried t'do indie hip hop on one song." Even Robyn Quinn has things she regrets.
She examines Else and her excitement a moment longer, before letting the corners of her lips tip up in a smirk, and she finally takes a long, long sip of her champagne. That attitude, it's infectious. This is why they're friends. "Fuck it. Stick t' One More Try and Tales from th' End an' it'll be a right bang up show, yeah?" Her smile widens, and she clinks her glass against Else's.
Nothing like going out with a bang if it comes to it, after all.
“Robyn, nobody listened t’yer last album,” Else jabs, smile hidden behind the rim of her champagne flute. “The closest I've ever gotten to it was a physical copy Andy uses as a coaster. An’ it's rubbish at that too!” A whoop of laughter erupts from Else at the end of that sentence, her smile toothy and broad.
But for all that she's jokes, there's a serious curve to this too. “Look,” she says with a tip of her head to the side, “I'll be real. Nobody wants t’touch your stuff professionally after what blew up. But one day th’ world’s gonna turn her bloody head away from this an’ the only lastin’ legacy’ll be your music.”
There's a smile, there, and Else reaches out to lay a hand on Robyn's shoulder. “Cat called me from Norway or wherever the fuck she's off to these days, an’ she pulled strings fer this. Patron of the arts and what not. But she says, make sure Miss Gestapo doesn't goose step across stage” Else relays that last bit with a roll of her eyes. “You fuckin’ know how she is.”
""Rude." Robyn crosses her arms as she watches Else and her enthusiastic laughter, keeping her glass close to her lips. At the mention of Cat, Robyn rolls her eyes too - though for markedly different reasons than Else. "Fuck critics, an' fuck Cat in particular," is remarked with a mix of spite and amusement. "She can keep 'er high horse right over there in whatever freezin' ass hellhole she's decided t' go cast spells in, that witch."
Despite that, she still grins, taking another long sip from her champagne flute. "So what y'r sayin' is," and with this her smirk again growing, "this is one more try t'hit it as big as we fuckin' can, an' t'really show people how t' do it right?"
If Elaine were here, she'd probably be throwing pillows from the couch at Robyn for name dropping her own album title.
She glances back over at the TV, and even with it showing adorable koalas, at the moment it still sits as a monument to a life and opportunities that are quickly slipping away and, eventually, will come back to haunt her. It was a possibility she'd never even considered when she signed up to work PR for Pinhearst in public and do their dirty work in private. She'd idolised Arthur Petrelli, and even when the scope of her knowledge didn't cover what was being revealed, this whole thing was taking a toll on her.
The way Robyn brushes Else's hand from her shoulder isn't a sign of annoyance, anger or distaste, but merely of utility that allows her to finish her glass and make her way over to refill it. "This is th' stupidest, best idea I've ever heard. Th' world's goin' all the way straight t'hell. What better way t'tell it t'fuck off than a show."
Which is to say, she's in.
“Tha’s what we’ll call it,” Else says with a raise of her brows as she tips her flute of champagne back. “The fuck off world fucking tour.” Else's brows lower, dark eyes considering the koalas. “Unless marketing has a better idea or somesuch.”
They do.