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| Scene Title | The Ol' Reacharound |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Kain invites Deckard up to his penthouse for some reindeer games. |
| Date | January 22, 2009 |
Dorchester Towers, Kain's Penthouse
Right from the doorway the sheer size of this penthouse seems designed to impress. The walls and ceiling are painted in a soft eggshell white that seems to only enlarge the perception of the living space, with lightly-stained hardwood floors reflecting the daylight spilling through the partly closed blinds. Immediately across from the entrance is a raised living room with three shallow steps leading up to the carpeted landing it sits on. A plush white sofa covers one wall, with a long glass-topped table between it and a matching chaise lounge. The entire opposite wall to the side of the sofa is a gigantic window that affords a view of the nighttime skyline of New York. Sliding vertical blinds are drawn drawn closed, but twisted so they remain partly open, giving a slatted view of the New York skyline. Up against the window is a jet black leather sofa with a tall lamp with a ball-shaped shade.
Further into the penthouse, there is a large open kitchen that is in plain view of the sitting room, a black marble-topped island divides the kitchen from the main floor, and beyond the island more counterspace and brushed-metal faced kitchen appliances fill the walls. From here, a hallway can be seen that is lined with four doors; one leading to an office, two more to bedrooms, and another to a bathroom.
It's not a shabby place, nice carpet, good paint, friendly staff.
Well, aside from the gun ever so gently pressed into the small of Flint Deckard's back. The staff of Dorchester Towers loses points for that.
The ride up the elevator has been nearly as awkward as the ride through the city. When a black sedan full of men in dark suits that — upon a Decard-close inspection — are seen to be carrying more guns than Deckard has excuses, complience is earned. This isn't the first time agents representing Daniel Linderman have come calling for one of New York's scruffiest scalliwags, but in all honesty it was old the first time.
By the time the private elevator reaches the penthouse, Deckard's night goes from bad to fuck you in about six seconds. Through the frosted glass wall outside of the elevator, he can see the silhouette of a man moving thorugh another room adjacent, and with a flicker of his vision he can see the man's skeletal structure, holstered revolver on his ankle, and the folding knife in his jacket. But something about that skeletal structure seems familiar — aggrivatingly so.
When the glass doors to the penthouse slide open with a hydraulic hiss, and a tall, blonde-haired cajun is revealed, Deckard finally recalls exactly why he hates his life as much as he does. At least on this particular night.
"Well hey there sunshine," Kain's lips draw back into a pearly white smile as the bald thug behind Deckard gently urgees him out of the elevator, holstering his gun as he does. "Ah' hope Manny here treated you nice an fine? Come on in, Ah' ain't never had many guests." Like some weird version of southern hospitality — with guns — Kain turns halfway and steps to the side, motioning into the penthouse with one open hand. Manny, to his credit as a gorilla of a man in a suit, nods his head silently and stands watch by the elevator.
It's so nice to feel so wanted.
Elevators are unnerving things even when they aren't filled with men wearing more guns than Deckard personally owns. The pully system rattling overhead with a loose bolt, the cable creaking thick overhead and underfoot. As with most once-upon-a-time frequent passengers with x-ray vision, these days, Flint generally prefers to take the stairs.
So it is with that extra layer of annoyance that he suffers the ride up, each layer of the building's thick skeleton passing from nose to toes with unnerving swiftness while he stares flatly ahead through the doors.
He's awful well-dressed, considering the hour. His hair is trimmed, stubble shaved into a respectably short, even bristle that manages to disguise some of the grey. His overcoat is new, and the pin-striped suit beneath that fresh-pressed. He looks the part of the businessman. One who's had a rough day at work, anyway. Were it not for the stink of cheap cologne that hangs heavy on his coat and oppressively within the elevator, his intentions might…just…have involved something other than paying girls half his age for sex.
As things are, were he anyone else, this might be a little embarrassing. He's empty-holstered, phoneless, down to the little switchblade at his calf for defense, and was caught red-handed and dragged into a van on his way into an establishment of unusually ill-repute. But he's also Flint Deckard. This is like, par for the course.
Still, it's hard to suppress the distaste that threatens to rankle into his nose and pull stark at the lines around his mouth when he's nudged out of the elevator and into Kain's penthouse. "He was a total gentleman. What do you want?"
"Straight to the point." Kain says with a flash of all-too-white teeth. Raising on hand in a gesture that could've held a revolver, he clicks a button on a remote control instead, causing the frosted glass doors to slide shut behind Deckard with the gentle hiss of hydraulics. "Help yourself," Kain nods a head over to the bottles of liquor seated on the island in the kitchen. "Ah dragged your ass up here so we could talk business without me havin' ta'point a gun at your head." Sauntering as Kain is often wont to do, the man carries himself over to the very island he motioned to, pulling up a stool to sit at it, where a short glass of something dark with a lime on the side waits for him patiently.
"Now this ain't about the fact that you've been givin' the ol' stiffy to Danny Linderman. Ah'm well 'ware of the fact that you ain't cut him shit in months — either that or you're bad at what you do." He smirks, only slightly, not nearly as much as he wants to. "This ain't 'bout Danny, an' it ain't got jack shit t'do with his company. This is a me an' you thing, because from what Ah'm hearin', you got yourself some pretty fancy style contacts since you rolled into town."
Kain picks up the glass, taking a sip of the mixed drink before settling it down. "Way Ah' see it," He purses his lips for a moment, staring down at the drink, then reaches out for an uncorked bottle of Captain Morgans, turning it bottoms up to stiffen the drink a little more. "Me an' you run on different sides of the street. Fuck, from the look a'you the first time we met you're probably under the street too. Ah' wanna' propose a business deal that doesn't end with a cock in'yer ass."
"I've been preoccupied." Threatened, saved, switched sides, end of the world, Sylar, broken ribs, bombs on bridges. Yeah. It's been a busy couple of months. He's slow to trail his way to the kitchen, and slower still to venture near enough the island that he can squint at various bottle labels. He doesn't lift his hand for any of them, and he doesn't take a seat, preferring instead to stand at an awkward catty corner with the island's bulk between himself and Kain's stool.
Brow still hooded low over an 'I don't want to be here,' look that's taken decades to perfect, he watches and listens without so much a twitch across the long angles and shadows that define the expression in all its flatly inconvenienced irritation. Just in case that didn't get the point across, he takes his time in replying, too.
"You dance around behind your boss's back enough that I'm beginning to wonder if you don't want a big fat dick in yours." Skepticism rides every word and cinches into crows feet while Deckard looks him over with his too-intense stare. Both hands tucked back into his overcoat pockets, he lifts his eyes to check over the surrounding architecture, casual study scraping around for microphones and cameras and everything else you really don't want around while you're tossing this kind of conversation around the kitchen. "What's the deal?"
Kain laughs, a good, long laugh as he shakes his head, settling his glass down on the marble countertop. "Deal's simple, Ah' ain't got mah finger on it yet, but from what Ah've been hearin' you got somethin' goin on up in your head that ain't normal." Kain taps two fingers from one hand at his temple. "Some boys a'mine saw you down on Canal Street one suspiciously foggy ol' night. Said your eyes were glowin' bluer than mine." Kain's brows raise, and there's a side-long glance fired at Deckard as he takes another sip from his drink.
"That makes you viable." With a tilt of his head, Kain turns on the stool to regard Deckard more fully. "There's somethin' goin' on down State Island way. Some folks down there, ones the cops are 'fraid of are puttin' together a little side business. Whatever sins you got, they're peddlin' 'em. There's a fella' down there by the name'a Logan, runs a whorehouse called the Lucky Dagger." There's a click of Kain's tonge at the name, "He knows some people, startin' up a cagefighting thing. Evolved only. Kinda' like cockfighting, but with superpowers."
Looking down to his drink, as if for advice on where to go next, Kain plucks the lime off of the edge, squeezing it into the rum and coke. "Now Ah'm lookin' at it two ways. Either you can shoot lasers outta' them big ole' eyes a'yours, or you got some other kinda' tricks up your sleeve. Thing is, you don't strike me as a fighter. But what ah do need, is a bookie." Blue eyes track from the lime to Deckard, "We're talkin' six figure paychecks here, Flint. That's just your cut; high rollers bettin' on superman versus fuckin' spiderman or whatever. I'm offerin' you a slice of the pie because Ah' know yoou might be able to pull in bigger an' better and meaner folks too. That makes us both rich."
Some things are harder not to react to than others. Being called out on having weird glowing eyes is enough to make Deckard's jaw clench until it seems likely that his molars might crack. Fortunately, they don't.
The cool slate of his glare locked stiff against Kain's regard, Deckard bears some vague resemblance to a zoo animal that doesn't take all that kindly to being ogled. "Kind of like cockfighting, but with superpowers," is the most intelligent thing he can think to say when his tongue finds it in itself to move again. Only, Kain just said it, so it doesn't sound intelligent so much as it makes him sound like an idiot. A slow breath and one last work of his jaw later, he looks aside, breaking eye contact in a nimble show of unconscious unease before it's resumed less intently.
"You think pretty highly of me for a guy who usually gets my attention with heat-packing stacks of beef."
"You're a hard guy to get the attention of." Kain admits with a raising of his glass, cheers as it were. He downs the last of the rum and coke, settling the glass onto the countertop before he slides up from his seat, one hand moving into the breast pocket of his midnight blue suit, retrieving a black and white photograph that looks to ave been taken through the windshield of a car, and judging from the crowded scene and backdrop it's Chinatown.
The picture is slid across the counter, face up, towards Deckard. Now that's a face he can't forget — Himself. But not only that, but the curly-haired brunette who accosted him and Felix Ivanov months back. In fact, there's Felix in frame. "That there, you got friends high up enough in the FBI that they don't arrest you on sight?" No comment is made about Mischa, save for that he's covering her face with his middle finger. Fuck you, Mischa, wherever you crawled to. "That's why my opinion did a one-eighty."
Moving his hand away from the picture, Kain tucks his hand into the pocket of his slacks, meandering away from the bar. "Way Ah' see it's, that you got a way of gettin' on people's good sides. Or at least trickin' 'em inta' not killin' you. But they don't have t'like you t'want to beat the fuck outta' someone else." Kain looks back over his shoulder to Deckard, the panoramic view of the city at night illuminated through the wrap around windows of the penthouse behind him.
"You want in, Ah'll set you up a meetin' with Logan. You want out, Ah' press a button an' you walk outta' here as poor as you walked in. No strings." Giving his shoulders a shrug, Kain looks to the doors, then back to Deckard. "Your call, chief."
Oh look. It's picture time. Scruffy head tilted to take in the cheerful trio the photograph represents, Deckard pushes a few fingers across the edge and leans back the necessary inch or so necessary to bring it into focus. Hello there, Felix.
His poker face holds true this time, lying to and about the police being an altogether more celebrated and less personal affair than discussing what his eyeballs get up to on dark and foggy nights in Chinatown. "Whups," is all he has to say for himself, followed by an equally cavalier fake apology in the form of high-lifted brows. Caught playing pattycake with feebs. Again.
"No need to trick them if you can give them a reason to prefer that you stay alive." Tappity tap tap go his fingers across the photo's border, and his right hand retracts slowly back into his pocket. "Six figures for watching people beat the crap out of each other." He shrugs. "I'm in."
There's a bit of a grin that creeps across Kain's face, "Good." Again he reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieving what wasn't taken out before, a red piece of paper folded closed. He makes his way back over to the island, laying it down on top of the photograph. "There's a name and an address in there, that's where you need to head, sooner the better." Blue eyes track down to the paper, two fingers tapping it. "You're goin' in as a bookie and fight promoter. Ain't gonna be you shoutin' from the fuckin' eaves, but you're gonna scout out tough and violent types, give 'em a nudge in the right direction. You'll get a flat rate cut'a what Ah'm makin' from the fights once they start, then a commission off'a fighters you bring in on your own." His fingers move off of the paper, hand retreating back to the pocket of his slacks again.
"Oh an'… word t'the wise." Kain's head cants to one side, "If you go diggin' for bitches down at the Dagger, watch out for a girl names Sally. She'll fuckin' knife ya if y'look at her wrong." Because that's the kind of pertinent information shared between business partners.
"Digging for bitches," Deckard cannot help but repeat, possibly not having heard it referred to as such among all the other things he has heard it called. "If I go digging for bitches, watch out for Sally. I'll make a mental note." For when he is next digging. For bitches. The corner of his mouth twitches up, nearly a smile despite present company and the fact that he's standing in a pimp pad that he could never in a billion years afford to live in. From the way he avoids the view of the city beyond the windows, you'd think it costs money just to see.
The paper is taken, thumbed open, glanced at, and closed again so that it can be tucked safely into the confines of his coat. "Mind if I take the picture too? I've been thinking of taking up scrapbooking."
"S'all yours." Kain says with a nod of his head, reaching down for the remote to click on button, causing the frosted glass doors to slide open again with a hydraulic whirring sound. For a moment Kain's silent, thoughtful in his introspection until the doors open fully, revealing Manny standing in quiet comtemplation of his manicure by the elevator doors — at least until he realizes someone's watching. "Now get on outta' mah apartment, before Ah' forget we're friends now."
At the sound of hydraulic elevator doors, Deckard glances up over his shoulder after them. And Manny, who has the prettiest nails in all the land according to anyone smaller than him that he might ask. Flint isn't actually ballsy enough to volunteer as much without prompting.
"Thanks," muttered while he folds the photo crisply over down its middle, he tucks it down after the red piece of paper and casts one last fleeting glance quickly about the place before heading back for the elevator as directed. "But we're still not friends."
 January 22nd: On Pawning Children |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 January 22nd: Deserted |