They're Playing Our Song


lola_icon.gif diogenes_icon.gif

Scene Title [Hey Baby] They're Playing Our Song
Synopsis The one they used to play when we used to get along…but now you're just creeping me out.
Date October 09, 2009

Lola's Hideout/Train station

Scene takes place in two places. Deal with it!

"Don't get upset. Don't make a fool of yourself."

"Don't lose your head. Please, get a grip on yourself."

Dressed in dark and exquisitely elegant clothing, a young man hastily yet nimbly descends into the subway. Contrasting his serious, almost business-like appearance are a pair of white headphones, leading to a small portable player that's hidden in the inner pocket of his jacket. Willfully ignoring the presence of others that happen to pass by, he hums to the tune of Whitey's Wrap it Up that is played on the radio station of his choice.

"You may well say, how could this happen to you? You may well ask, and you may not like the truth!"

This isn't the first radio he has tried. He has tried varied descriptions, just so that few - or, ideally, none - would notice the pattern and trace these attempts to a single person. He has even paid people of different archetypes, instead of having the same person or similar individuals send in the call. The idea of him making the call himself is quite apparently a ridiculous one, considering that he'd give away his voice to thousands, if not millions of people. Plus, it's creepier if he does it this way.

Why is it always to you? Why is it always to you? Why is it always to you!

"Why does this happen to you", he sings along in a gleeful murmur under his breath as he wanders over to one of the public phones he had claimed. He fishes out his cell phone, and brings the screen's illumination to life with a single key press in order to look at the time. What time is it, you ask? It's time to freak Lola out. Hopefully, this is the radio she is listening at the moment. He is sure that the guy he has paid will call, considering how creative his 'or else' statements were.

Tap, tap, tap goes his foot against the ground to the rhythm of the song. Other 'instruments' provide company - his bobbing head and fingers drumming against the counter at the phone. It's certainly an infectious song, the sort that gets stuck in your head for the remainder of your day. At least, that's how it affected Diogenes.

It isn't long before the song comes to an end, with repeated words Outta luck! ringing next to a weakening melodious pulse of the musical piece. Before the song can completely fade out, however, the host wakes up, rapidly bombarding listeners with all manner of thoughts; not completely random, mind, considering that one seamlessly attaches to the next, but Diogenes still considers that radio show hosts act as though they were on speed. Plenty of it. He was waiting for
something else. And, surely enough, that 'something else' arrives just on time.

"Hey-hey-hey, people, how's it hangin'? Good? Well, I am certainly doin' good. It's Friday, man! God damn, am I gonna get drunk tonight! Mazeltov, guys! Also, to all the dark-haired girls named Marie who have a gunshot wound - I am the guy you're looking for tonight!"

What follows is a number, and a prideful Peace out! that causes Diogenes to doubt whether he has picked the right individual for the job. On the other hand, the message is sent. He glances at the time once more, and then directs his gaze to the phone before him. Particularly, the number on the label precariously glued to the aged metal. It's identical to the one the overly active jock-type dictated on the radio. Hopefully, if Lola truly picks up the message, she will call.

Lola, AKA Marie is currently listening to that very radio station. Country, of course. She's in the shower with plastic waterproof tape over her bandages as she rinses her hair. She might not have heard it if she'd had her head in the spray, but luckily, she steps out just in time and is wrapping a towel around her body in Cardinal's 'bolthouse' when the shoutout comes on. And she just stops moving, for a moment, just stares. Who could it be?

It could be anyone. Adam, trying to find her. That killer. But, for some reason, her mind goes to the third possiblity - the person who sold her out through Linderman. Either way, someone's trying to contact her. It might even be the good guys - Kain and Manny and Dixon. Maybe the cell he gave her is no good. Point is, it could be anything. So, picking up her old phone - not the one Kain gave her, Lola dials the number, walking out in naught but a towel into the living room.

The call is answered nigh instantaneously, hinting at the fact that whoever set this up is at the ready. The very first thing Lola hears, however, is heavy, laboured breathing washing over the speaker on the other end. It's not until a couple of seconds that a strained, raspy voice finally gives shape to words:

"I know what you did last summer."

Of course, the opportunity would go completely down the drain if he wasted the call just to play a prank. It doesn't take Diogenes to switch to his normal voice, which would be easier for Lola to recognise even if it is warped by the transmission. He carries on: "Or, particularly, a few days ago. You move pretty fast."

Lola is, indeed, about to hang up, but Dio's real voice changes the need for that. She really should have known. "You have no idea just how fast, sugar," she says, smirking a bit. Because he can't touch her now. "An here I thought, when we first met, ya wanted nothin' ta do with me. An here we are, with you all hung up over my sweet ass. It's sad, really, sugar. Ya oughta learn how to move on." When not facing the death, Lola's a bit braver, though she's shaken none the less.

There is a brief pause before Diogenes speaks up again. Aiming to knock her bravery down a notch, he decides to cheerfully remark: "The way you look now is what made me change my mind."

He does not dwell on that clever bluff that, as it happens, would apply to any and all appearances, be Lola in a towel as she is now or in some dress. She's a woman, and it's in their genes to care for their appearance, after all. He does not dwell on this comment, however, instead moving on to what concerns him much more. "You were uncooperative last time we met. Are you going to tell me who you are, or are you going to continue playing this Russian Roulette? Eventually, there'll be a bang as you press the trigger. I'm just trying to prevent that."

It might be a lie. She could press him. She'd rather not, and instead Lola moves quickly to the curtains in the living room, yanking them shut. She folds her free arm across her chest, tucking it other her other, which holds up the phone as she speaks lowly. Threateningly. Like a cornered animal. "You can't touch me now and you know it. Just leave me alone, or I swear I'll tell the cops everything."

Quite like Lola's self-preservation instincts kick in and show in her tone, the man's own tone of voice grows to be more serious and more threatening, as well, although it remains level, as if there was not a single worry in the world. An eerie contrast.

"Whether I can touch you or not at the given moment is a fact that is entirely irrelevant, because my current goal is not to touch, but to hear you speak what I want to hear", he states, coolly. "Failing that… My ability requires no touch." He smacks his lips together, providing a short pause for himself to gather his thoughts and plan what to say next. Considering that she's threatened to tell the cops 'everything', it is not difficult for the paranoid fellow to arrive to the conclusion that, in one way or another, she knows what he's done. And it's highly likely that she's the one who took a picture of him, considering her convenient appearance. As such, he continues: "You have no way of proving that you haven't passed something on to others, be they cops or your BFFs. Something like… I don't know, a picture of me?"

He's speaking just vaguely enough so that Lola cna't be sure. BFFs…he knows she's with someone. Maybe knows that she told them everything already. "I got a picture in my mind, sugar, that's all I need. This city's swarming in red-light cameras." Maybe? Fuck if she knows. "I tell the cops, and you take a step off of Staten and I'll be the least of your problems. They will nail you to the floor and leave you there to rot. So back off, do you hear me?"

A hoarse chortle can be heard. "You've kick-started all of this. You know how curiosity and cats don't get along, don't you?"

"Let's assume you haven't told the cops anything. In that case, there has to be sort of motivation and, more importantly, 'trigger' that you're waiting for. Or you have already passed on information to the law enforcement or someone else. All I want to know is who knows me. I might be even kind and gentlemanly enough to arrange a meeting. You'll find that I am a kindhearted murderer." He glances at his cell phone once more, peeking at the time yet again, as though waiting for something or someone.

"Come near me again and you'll have all sorts of fiery hell raining down on you. That's a promise you disgusting fucker." She says, and pulls the phone away. She may have time to hear another statement that he might make, but regardless, she's going to flip the phone off, slump down on the sofa, and hide her face. She's terribly fucked.

Four words are more than enough for Diogenes to recognise the hollow threat that will doubtlessly be followed by the abrupt end of this conversation. A pity, really, but her outbursts still elicits a smirk - he is getting to her. And although he is giving her the idea that she truly is 'terribly fucked', the young man simply ensured that she will learn a lesson and will be more careful when being curious. Since he has no desire to listen to the end of her flamboyant yet ultimaely shallow threats, he hangs up before the promise is fully delivered.

He takes off the black leather glove and tucks it into the other inner pocket of his jacket. Perhaps Lola is from the FBI. Perhaps she is, or knows, a technopath. Precautions have to be made. Which is why just as he readies himself to walk away, he recalls having drummed on the counter. Duly, he draws the ultimate eraser of finger-prints - a lighter - and burns the spot where his fingertips touched the surface.

With that, he hurriedly half-runs towards the platform, where a train conveniently awaits him. That is what he has been waiting for. A quick getaway from the current location.

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