The Right Thing


deckard_icon.gif nisha_icon.gif

Scene Title The Right Thing
Synopsis Nisha asks for Deckard's advice, then asks him to do the right thing. Too bad their individual definitions of what's "right" don't have much in common with each other.
Date February 12, 2009

The Rookery

There are a number of ways in which a woman of Nisha's wealth and stature could have reacted to a bugler such as Cardinal. Of course, the police got involved, as well they should have. A report was filed. But Cardinal's unique ability made feeling safe in such a big, empty apartment rather difficult, and Nisha can't juggle nightly penthouse cocktail parties that go on into the wee hours of the morning and a sixty hour workweek. It's impossible.

But that's where Flint Deckard comes in.

Phoned perhaps because Muldoon was unavailable, Nisha walks through the colorful marketplace of Staten Island's Rookery, her clothing as dull as it ever is when she deigns to visit the isolated hell-hole. Her hair is covered in what might be called a remnant of a more traditional manner of dress, but the large sunglasses that obscure her eyes from the bright afternoon sun are quite modern.

Flint Deckard has looked worse. He's also looked better. Though most of the swelling has gone down across the bridge of his nose and around his eye, bruising remains in red and black force, pooling dark under his brow and around the ridge of his cheekbone. Someone has hit him in the face. Several times. It's too much for the reflective lenses of his sunglasses to hide easily, but he seems alert and able enough, spine straight and the sweep of his glare over those milling around the market attentive.

He's put the money he's been making to decent use. At least so far as his wardrobe is concerned. If not for the battered face, he could probably pass for someone with a slicker income than the one he actually has. The suit he's wearing under his overcoat is a sooty shade of black — the dress shirt beneath that, dusky gray. It's professional, in a professionally…criminal…kind of way.

He sees her first, likely owing to the fact that he's not as easily muddled by sunglasses and hair covers as the average onlooker. The pack of cigars he was examining is dropped back onto an untidy pile of its brothers and sisters and he turns to trail after her, not taking too much time to reach the space at her shoulder.

The man at her shoulder is either Flint or a Cardinal clone, but Nisha banks on the latter when she addresses him, not turning her head to actually look at him. Not yet, anyway. "Good afternoon, Mr. Deckard," Nisha says with that dry, business-like politeness, as if they were meeting in her office rather than on a derelict street.

She sneaks a glance at him, and squints behind her dark lenses. "If it weren't for your face, I'd congratulate you on doing well for yourself. Or do you simply bounce from altercation to altercation?"

"Afternoon." Deckard can play that game. The 'pretend like we aren't in a horrifying part of town talking about potentially doing illegal stuff' game. Otherwise he'd be wearing jeans and a t-shirt. And smoking. And he wouldn't have bothered showering.

"Last time I was saving the world for a friend. This time I was working on a research project for a client." He doesn't make much of an effort to hide the fact that he's looking at her while he walks, as if he expects there to be some kind of visual hint for why she called him out here. "Business as usual."

"Good," is Nisha's perhaps too abrupt reply. "I am in need of something to protect me in my home. As you always manage to survive violent encounters, I assumed you would have an idea or two." She pauses, but then turns her head away from a book at the side of the road to look at him, her mouth twisted into a scowling frown. "But no guns." Without the proper (and almost impossible to obtain) permits, Nisha could be disbarred.

Then what good could she do for anyone?

"Go to prison for a decade, carry a gun, make yourself worth more alive than you are dead." None of this advice is helpful for her, but golly gosh has it done wonders for him so far. Brows lifted for the apparent obviousness of his personal philosophy on survival, he tacks on a low, "Prayer is optional," before looking down to get a better measure of her stride. He's having a hard time matching it for whatever reason.

Nisha finds none of Deckard's answers appealing, as her frown does not waver even as she sets her eyes back on the road before her. "Unacceptable," she pronounces, as if there were a doubt. "Also, the man who broke into my knew my name. And, when I caught him in the act of robbing me blind, he neglected to do the honorable thing and run - he stayed and chatted me up for a good ten minutes before he…" Nisha pauses, tensing for a moment before she decides what words to use. "…he faded away."

"You're a rich lawyer who lives alone in a luxurious apartment. He probably did his homework." The mention of 'fading away' prompts a wrinkle at his nose, but the rest doesn't seem all that surprising, in the scheme of things. A lot of criminals are really stupid. A fair portion of the small selection that aren't are crazy. "If he was Evolved your best bet for a more scientific means to keep him out would be the police. Otherwise, motion detectors, a taser, mace. Personal security. You may have to move into a slightly smaller pad, or keep less in your apartment that's worth stealing."

Tasers are illegal, else that would be the route that Nisha would take. But motion detectors…well, if she can't trust the building's built in security, why not? Nisha is silent for a few minutes as she considers this, and then she nods. "Thank you, Mr. Deckard. One more thing?"

"You live in New York City. Midtown's a crater. Staten Island is a hell hole. You're going to get robbed, beaten up and burgled no matter what you do." Matter-of-fact, Deckard rolls his eyes behind his glasses at her 'thank you,' the swing of his hands tucked down into his overcoat pockets before he nods vaguely in what may pass for a welcome and a, 'What?'

Arguably, Deckard's New York is a much grittier version than Nisha's, at least on a day to day basis. But that's what you get in any sort of metropolis. The what is soon explained. "If you should see this man - too cocksure for his own good and as slippery as an eel in oil - I trust you will do the right thing and report him." After all, Deckard's swimming in a bigger pond now, and little fish should be of no consequence.

"Cocksure and slippery as an eel," Deckard repeats, the delay that comes before the drone of his voice just enough to insinuate skepticism. "Sure. I mean, obviously the only reason I've gotten this far is because I call the cops on every shady guy I come across. When I brush my teeth I have to close my eyes so I don't see myself in the mirror."

"He wasn't so much an idiot that he gave me his name, Deckard," Nisha retorts with a slight shake of her head. "Forget I even brought it up." With the circles Deckard ran in, and for all Nisha knows still does run in, the possibility of Cardinal finding out just how much he shook the uptown lawyer isn't something Nisha wants to linger on. "Good afternoon," the woman says after a moment, turning just enough to nod before she breaks from Deckard to walk away.

"No Mister this time?" Deckard's voice lifts after her, antagonistic without effort. He doesn't move to follow, or really even watch her for too terribly long. A couple of heads have turned, and rather than draw in more attention, he drags his cell phone out of his pocket and resumes walking. Off to another meeting, maybe. Or just to get a drink.

February 12th: Castling
February 12th: Missed Tide
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