The Radio Star Is Dead Again


casey_icon.gif elle_icon.gif hugh_icon.gif

Scene Title The Radio Star Is Dead Again
Synopsis This time, Elle killed her. Sparks fly between her and Casey, of both the good and the bad sort; Hugh wisely decides to keep out of it.
Date November 25, 2008

Primatech Research - A break room

A scratchy recording of 'Charleston' plays from an ancient cassette radio that's been plunked on one of the tables in the Primatech break room. Just beside the radio are two polished shoes that belong to the jazz-enthusiast (feet on the table!) who's chosen to torment those around him with needlessly cheery music - and, as a result, the rest of the room is completely clear of agents beyond the cajun himself. Casey has also apparently decided to bend the commonly-accepted rules of the room, and the remains of a cigarette lies smoldering on the edge of a shallow dish in front of him.

Well, Hugh is surely not gonna bust him about the cig. He comes back in from what was presumably a debriefing. 'Nice music, that," he says, in that Edinburgh lilt that always sounds like a question. He's shrugging out of his suitjacket, presumably on a break, himself. "Hugh Wickham," he adds, by way of a lazy introduction.

Oh, poor unfortunate souls. Elle is not aware, yet, that such horrible noises are playing inside the first non-busy break room she comes across, though she will be very soon. Those that have seen her lately will mark her as looking kind of murderous - touchy, in fact, a mood which would actually be charmingly cute if it weren't also accompanied by warning strobes of electricity.

Right now, she is in /headache land/ and just wanting to take a breather. It's a dark red blouse and charcoal slacks today; the door cracks open to let the trim blonde in. "Hey, boys," is her waggish greeting to the men already inside. "…Case. You /know/ you're not supposed to be smoking in here."

"Casey Broussard." It's about all that poor Hugh can probably expect to get out of the man at the table as far as speaking goes, though he does stretch one arm out to push back the chair next to his, offering it to the newcomer. As far as Elle goes, well- "Y'all catch that blondie yet?" -and a smirk to go with it.

"Agent Bishop," Hugh says, calmly, inclining his head to her before claiming the chair like a lion draping itself over a sunwarmed rock. He hangs his suitjacket neatly over the back, first. "And how d'you, Broussard," Merely the token litany of greeting.

When she does not get a reply to the cigarette question, Elle allows herself to slip further into the room and shut the door behind her, wincing as bad moozak infiltrates her ears. There is a breath and an eyeroll of about half a second. "Why ask a question when you already know the answer?"

Ahah. "Failure hurts." Casey reaches forward, catlike, to pluck his lighter off the table, flicking the wheel on its back once or twice to create sparks. Instead of lighting another cigarette the thing just ends up tucked away in a pocket, presumably for the foreseeable future.

"Because you know asking will provoke the one you question," Hugh responds, with iron reserve. He reaches into his own coat and produces a metal cigarette case. No lighter, though, nor does he ask for one.

"You should listen to Hugh." At Casey, Elle's eyebrows poke a little higher, and she wiggles her head in several tiny, earnest nods as though trying to explain something to a small child. "You know Monroe isn't your average jailbird."

The lighter makes another appearance, palmed back into Casey's hand before being flipped out between his index and middle fingers to be extended to Hugh. "And she ain't an average girl." This is obviously said to the other man, since it's suddenly become Time To Ignore Elle. Probably because she's playing at preschool.

Hugh takes the lighter, gently, but he eyes Elle. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he wonders. It's only polite. Clearly, Casey won't mind. "Smarter than the average bear," he says, Ses faintly slurred.

Elle's eyes then narrow. She directs her steps so she's soon facing in front of both reclining men, folding her arms across her stomach. "/I'm still here, you know/." is her hiss between clenched teeth; she is certainly /angrier/ than the average bear at this point. "Are you two out completely out of it? Hugh, put that lighter down."

Casey can't help but smile at Elle. It's just that she's so darn "Adorable, no?" He waggles his toes at the girl, loafers glinting in the annoying break room lighting, as he turns his gaze onto Hugh. "The little thing's so darn pissy."

"What you're doing is rather rude, Brousseau," Hugh admonishes, turning that pale blue stare on Casey for a moment. "I'd rather you not bait a fellow agent while I'm around. It's so uncivilized." And then he looks back to Elle, quite obviously patiently awaiting an explanation. But he does put the lighter down.

Sage advice indeed. Especially /this/ fellow agent, and especially someone as baitable as Elle. "/Thank you/," she directs towards Hugh, dipping her head in acknowledgement while keeping her lifted brows on him. Casey gets her glance next, and when he does, it is distinctly more hostile. "If you value that pretty skin of yours, Broussard, you'll follow Company rules. One of them is 'no smoking in break rooms'."

That's why Elle's so much fun - she is baitable. Still, Casey throws his hands up in surrender and twitches his wrists, shoulders rolling into an easy shrug. "Just forget about it." Oh, irony. The agent leans back in his chair a bit more easily as he drops his palms down over his stomach, eyebrows lifting. "You new, Wickham?"

"Mostly new to this side of the pond. I'm used to working out of and was trained in London," Hugh says, with that magisterial calm. As Elle gets more irritated, he gets more serene. Very zen, really. He leaves the lighter where it is, and slips the cigarette case back into the pocket of his suitjacket.

As far as that irritation goes, Elle can't stop a very short line of electricity from streaking over her hand like a water bug. Zzt. Her jaw grits, but her eyes do the briefest of diagonal eye-rolls, and she works at relaxing. Nothing is said, beyond that.

Casey's eyes follow that tiny bit of zappage like a hawk, since it's very much a warning sign. He slowly swings his legs off of the table and spins his chair to the side, swiveling until he can snatch his lighter up again. "You'd best watch out for this little lady."

Hugh just eyes Elle, expectantly. Well, you gonna flip out, or….? He doesn't seem particularly intimidated. "How long have you both been with the Company?"

No. Ahem. /Not/ going to flip out. Elle's shoulders go down with a somewhat hesitant exhalation. "I grew up here," she offers Hugh in a voice that is slightly more successful at being classified as 'neutral'. "I think I was seven when my dad first brought me in."

"Buncha years." Casey's not exactly the sort to let a state of neutrality remain at rest. He turns the lighter over and over in his hand, tapping its edges against the table every few seconds. If something doesn't happen, he'll make his own fun. Right now, that fun is looking like another cigarette.

'Year and a half," Hugh says, tilting his head down a bit and eyeing Elle, gaugingly. "A lifer, eh?"

"Yeah, you could pretty much say that." The expression that slants onto Elle's face is a difficult one to read. Down-to-earth and a little more intense at the same time, as though she's trying to gauge Hugh's reaction to an action she hasn't taken yet. What is /not/ difficult to read is the look she subsequently gives Casey, though her gaze is still wide-eyed and apparently thoughtful. "I don't know you very well, Wickham. That's kind of unusual - here. How'd you join us?"

Casey slips a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket, bringing it mouth so he can pluck one out. Snap, snap, puff - and then he leans forward, propping his elbows up on the table. "Lots of Brits comin' over. Ain't Montag from there?"

Hugh purses his lips. "I don't know him, I couldn't say," Hugh says, voice very bland. "I was SAS. My wife and I were recruited, ostensibly because of skills the company should be ableto use."

"S'that a military thing?" is Elle's guess. She is unfamiliar with the acronym, but it sounds about right. "…you're not. One of us, right." There is a very, very patient sigh from her, which is to say it contains no patience whatsoever, and as quick as a blink, her hand whips out in an attempt to snatch the cigarette packet from Casey's fingertips before he can return it to his pocket.

"Wha— shit, Elle." The blonde is landed with a very disapproving frown from Casey, who grumpily takes a long draw off of the already-lit cigarette and then calmly blows the smoke at Elle. Harrumph. "Those things're expensive. Tell 'er, Wickham."

"Special Air Service. British Special forces," Hugh explains, curling his hands around the ends of the arms of his chair. "One of you? What does that entail? I work for the Company."

"Why, I dunno. I think these'll make a decent keepsake. If I don't decide to burn them outside, first." Pouty lip. In this case, though it is more just irritatingly, Ellishly innocent. Her eyes go wide as well; do you have a problem, Cajun boy? "One of /us/, one of /them/, Hughie, and all that jazz. Do you have an ability."

The conversation has turned, and with it Casey gives Elle one long last look of annoyance before he turns to stare at Hugh expectantly, tapping a bit of ash off into the bowl in front of him. "I don't think he's one of us. Military tends to be twitchy 'bout that sorta thing, don't they? Bet he's just a soldier."

"I have many abilities," Hugh says, bland as milk. "But if you mean a mutation that lets me do supernatural things, no,"

The packet goes right into the pocket of her slacks, creating a squarish bulge. After a long look at it, and then at Casey, Elle finally picks up Casey's radio to deftly set it on the floor with a 'flump', hopping up to park her behind on the table's edge in its place. "He could /hide/ it. A lot of people do. Casey, what in the world are you /listening/ to?" The curiosity isn't the kind sort.

God dammit. Casey's free hand whips to the side to give Elle's nearest leg a rather sharp slap as he leans to the side, fingers soon grazing the radio until he manages to hook his fingers into its handle. "You just don't have taste, blondie." Grump, grump. "An' too bad for you, Wick. Elle could use a scorch or two." When he straightens back up Casey sets the radio protectively on his lap, keeping one arm around it.

Hugh remains unimpressed by Elle's behavior, by the way lines are settling at the corners of his mouth. Not quite a frown, but he looks stern. "I'm not her keeper," he says, flatly.

"I hope you know that /no/ taste is better than /bad/ taste. And I could use a what? - " It's fortunate for Casey that he already has the radio encircled in his grip, because the machine is what she probably would've directly gone for. "…if Hugh isn't my keeper, you aren't either. Quit talking to me like I'm a little sister or something."

"Might not be, but damn if she doesn't need one." More grumping, and then Casey starts to unfold from his seat. He makes it to his feet and proceeds to stretch his back, his cigarette tucked into the side of his mouth. "As for you, Elle. You already pretty much are a little sister. I can fix your attitude for you if you'd let me."

Hugh heaves himself up from his chair. "I'll be on the firing range, should you need me," he says, without further preamble. Apparently he doesn't intend to stick around for this fight.

"Shut up. I can fix your /music/ for you if you'd let me." With this, Elle's fingers shape themselves into a 'gun' position of extended forefinger and thumb. A sharply aimed ~zaaaap~ pelts right into the black honeycomb of one speaker, soon uncoiling into tangles of glitching electricity. Zt. Zt zt. Needless to say, it isn't jazz that's coming out of /that/ old thing anymore.

Only then does she take a glance upwards at Hugh. "Later~," is her glib reply, cocking in a small wave the very same fingers she had used to shoot Casey's radio. There is some hint of a smile that hadn't been there before.

Casey drops the radio like a hot potato just as soon as the charge from Elle hits it, the man dancing a few paces to the side. The thing might as well be on fire, and the unpleasant clattering it makes when it strikes the ground assures that it has indeed met the end of its overlong lifespan. Woe. Hugh gets little more than a nod from Casey, who is suddenly very interested in eyeballing the blonde.

The redhead just shakes his head, plucks his suitjacket from the back of his chair, and drapes it over a shoulder. He then wanders out, whistling something jaunty.

What is Elle's response? Why, Elle's response is a widening of that smile so it's ten times more innocent and self-pleased. From the knees down, her legs kick from underneath the table. "Yes?"

Casey points. He points at Elle, his index finger coming dangerously close to her face, hovering about an inch in front of the tip of her nose. "You behave yourself." The 'or else' is implied.

Behind Casey, the radio has started issuing thin twists of smoke. At this point, a giggle actually escapes Elle. Her smile slips to expose two rows of trim white teeth. "Or what, Caseface? You gonna go all /ragin' Cajun/ on me? Should I be scared?"

"Probably should be, if you know what's good for you." Beyond that, though, there are no threats. No empty and boring speech of let-me-tell-you-what-I'm-going-to-do-to-you that takes all the fun out of things. Casey doesn't roll that way. He does poke Elle's nose. And tweaks it, too. "Brat."

"Heey." Elle rubs at the skin of her nose where Casey's finger had flubbed it. Slipping off the table's edge as suddenly as she had climbed onto it, she tilts her head in such a way so she can survey the much taller man with a playful, more genuine look in her round eyes. "Oh, c'mon. I'll get you a new one. Don't be such a sour sport."

Casey curls his lip. "Y'all can't keep breaking stuff and expect people to like you, cutie pie." Though Elle is closer, she gets another flick to her nose. A harder one. "Or throwin' lightning. Don't like that at all."

Okay, /that/ one stung. There is a harsh twitch of Elle's eyelids in reaction, but she still looks unrepentant after the fact. In fact, she just gives her shoulders a slight waggle over her crossed arms. "Then tell me, Casey. What /do/ you like?"

Elle's question first results in a look that's not quite blank - it's more neutral. Then Casey smiles. "What do I like?" Well. That's actually a pretty long list, and Casey's hand drops far enough so he can give Elle's cheek a little pat. "I like jazz, which you've killed. And I like Mexico. We should go sometime."

When it does, Elle pounces on it so she can make little creepy-crawlies up Casey's forearm with her fingers as it slowly drops again. One side of her lips is pulled downwards, matter-of-factly; her eyes settle more intensely on his than ever. "Jazz is dead," she tells him frankly, gaze dropping for just a single second before snapping back up. "But you've got /me/." Yay.

Casey actually seems to be rather put off by the sensation of Elle's nails twitching their way up his arm, and he twitches it back towards himself somewhat prematurely, his mouth turning down at its corners. Her next statement doesn't do anything to improve his disposition towards her, either. "Jazz ain't dead, and you're off limits. Don't think your daddy'd like it."

Well, pooh. Fine then. Elle withdraws her intruding hand with an arch of her eyebrows, looking for all the world like her feelings are hurt. "Daddy's not here, remember?" she asks. The hand is settled on one hip, where the other goes, too, half-wrapping around her slim abdomen as they rest. "Well, if you ever change your mind~." It's said with an outward breath, almost in a sing-song. She lets that linger.

Pshaw. "If I ever change my mind, it's time I've been put down for crazy." But maybe Casey doesn't mean that so much. One never knows with him, especially since a small smile ghosts its way onto his face. He takes a step to the side, ignoring his now-destroyed radio, and pulls his suitjacket up from the back of his chair as if making ready to leave. "I'll buy you a coffee in town, though."

A smile blossoms more openly on Elle's own face; breezily, she slips the stolen cigarette packet out of where she had been stowing it and pauses, finding a pocket in the suitjacket and neatly tucking it in as soon as the garment is in his arms. Then she she steps back with a self-satisfied smirk.

"You and me; we both have a lot of that," she returns with a note of finality, quirking the top of her head. Her forefinger darts out to attempt a stinging ~zaap~ at the man's nose, her expression unchanging as she does this.

Casey waits patiently, watching the tiny woman as she returns his cigarettes to him with an expression that could only be called 'amused'. "Ain't no one as crazy as you, Elle." He accepts the zap with barely more reaction than a simple flinch backwards, and then lifts an eyebrow before offering the blonde his arm, crooked outwards to be taken. "Maybe a beer instead of a coffee, if you're in that sorta mood."

But Elle does not take the offered arm, instead placing her hands in a backwards grip on her hips so she can flounce towards the door, giving Casey one last long, flirtatious look as she slips past.

Once her body is just inside the door, her slender fingertips curl around one frame of the doorway, and her blue eyes are clearly visible as being wide. "Maybe. Last time someone bought a coffee for me, it didn't go so well." With that secretive, parting thought to digest, she whips the rest of the way out, blonde hair the last thing Casey will see vanishing behind her.

November 25th: Knitting Needle Stab Wounds

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

November 25th: Why
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License