Those Crazy Funsters


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Scene Title Those Crazy Funsters
Synopsis Hiro recruits two champions to rescue Melissa Pierce's history. It's— you know what? I'm just going to leave this here.
Date October 15, 2010

DHS Facility

It's never completely dark, here. The mirror that spans one of Edgar's walls reflects back to him the cold, grey angles of his new and soon to be very temporary jail cell. Though he's been given time to sleep, it could well be arbitrary — that it's night outside has little to do with it, with no time-telling tools available to the speedster who still has negatory drugs running through his veins, affording him the same sluggish mundanity that he knew well in Moab. Probably, for someone with the power to move very quickly, time must crawl.

On the subject of time, someone stops it completely.

Not that Edgar can possibly be aware of this. But it's quiet enough that the slight rush of air of motion within the room might just prickle at his senses in his half-doze, that feeling of no longer being alone. Even though there does not appear to be anyone within the room. No one save for a mildly crumpled paper crane that is suddenly just sitting on the bolted shelf where he would normally be receiving food.

A rush of breath in through his nose has the speedster holding his breath for just a pause before twitching his head to the side and rolling up to a seated position. His dark blue eyes make a slow drift around the room before they focus on the paper crane, one that was in his bedroom only a few nights before his imprisonment.

Pushing himself up and onto his feet, he wobbles slightly, still unused to the snail pace the drugs force on him. His dark eyebrows furrow in thought as he makes his way over and picks the crane up with trembling fingers. Almost as though he had his speed back, Edgar's neck twists until he's facing the one way mirror and scowling at it. "This some kind'a joke?" He yells to no one there. He can only assume that someone is listening.

His first attempt at unfolding the crane ended with its head being tugged a little too hard and coming off. The tape he used to repair the little note causes a jolt in his system and he stops, looking up and around him. "Wha's this? You been in my room? Tha' blow up doll… i' ain' mine!"

Edgar isn't wrong. There is someone listening.

Maybe not who he suspects, naturally. Hiro narrows a stare through the glass of the window-mirror, before he tilts a glance over his shoulder towards the red eye of a camera currently transmitting a grainy image of Hiro Nakamura to anyone within the DHS fortress who desires to receive it. Which means they won't have a lot of time. Fortunately, that is his specialty.

"I have been in your room," Hiro admits— now from within the cell, several feet behind Edgar. He is not a very imposing man, although his garb attempts it — a black coat that covers other shades of the same darkness, some kevlar involved, and of course, a sword strapped to his back that makes a crooked angle beyond his left shoulder. "But this is not a joke. Why are you here?"

Turning so quickly that he almost loses his balance, Edgar's hand closes around the crane protectively and stares at the little warrior. The compulsion to tell the truth is still deeply rooted but whose truth?

"Tryin' teh stop wha' 'appened to my fam'ly from 'appenin' teh sum'one else's. Now I'm lookin' for redemption. Why're you 'ere?" The carnie's eyes narrow suspiciously as he spies the sword on the other man's back and then wheels into a defensive stance. He might not have his speed, but there's a Haitian negator and a blonde bimbo that know all too well that he doesn't need it to be dangerous.

Hiro drifts a step backwards as he sees tension set through Edgar's frame, some glimmer of sympathy for the wariness for all that it's very fitting, considering the circumstances. His hands hang loose at his sides, uninclined to go for the sword as he blinks with predatorial watchfulness across at the other man, considering in his silence. "I can assist in redemption. Unless you would prefer to do it in here," he says, politely. You never know. His accent makes hard consonants, z's slithering along his s's, stilted phrasing breaking his words. But he's had a few years, now, to get it right.

He twitches a glance for the door. It hasn't been kicked in yet. A glance to his watch confirms; "You do not have much time to decide. But your friend," a glance to the crane, with Melissa's image folded up in the creases, "needs your help. Her life is in danger."

It doesn't take long for Edgar to consider. Given the choice, he straightens and nods, still clenching the bit of paper tightly in his hand. His jaw flexes and flares out a little at the base, his eyes lowering to the floor humbly before nodding once. "I'd rather no'… stay 'ere. As comf'terble as the bed in an' all, I like bein' able teh run moren' the walls of a six by eight foo' cell."

A twitch of the speedster's lips attempts a small smile as he stands tall and takes a few easy steps forward. "I 'ope there's a change'a clothes where we're goin'… I don' wan'teh stand ou'." Prison garb is a little bland, but at least it's somewhat comfortable… at least after it's been worn by a few other people.

Hiro's mouth quirks into a half-smile, which is really all that's time for — the Haitian's negatory influence spreads across the room like an invisible tide in a split second after Edgar and Hiro are vanished from it, potentially forever, leaving only the warmth of the ex-prisoner's body cooling in the cot, and little more evidence than that. Vincent Lazzaro will be glad, at least, that the speedster's inevitable jailbreak was on the Department of Homeland Security's watch, and not that of Evolved Affairs.

It's stunningly hot, wherever they are next. The sudden sun drives knives through Edgar's brain in its midday glare, the sky like a brilliant cyan dome capping around a world much larger than his cell. Desert, mainly. A squat structure of an aging house casting shade just next to him, a scraggle of trees and a clothes line full of clothes.

An AC/DC shirt and a pair of baggy jean-shorts may be on the menu, unless Edgar wants to try his hand at floral print dresses. Hiro isn't going to tell him either way. Hiro also isn't here. A 'brb' might have been nice.

A choice between an AC/DC shirt and a floral print dress? Well, it's not the first time Edgar's played the part of the bearded lady. Just for good measure, he takes the shorts too. He's got no modesty when it comes to shedding the trappings of confinement in favor of the stolen clothing. Tugging the shorts on first, he closes them at the hips and then pulls the dress over his head.

It flows in a rather dainty fashion to just above Edgar's knee and he twists to each side before giving a nod of acceptance to his own shadow. "Sometimes… a man jus' 'as teh feel pretty. Don' judge." It'll be his excuse. Pulling his boots back on, he leaves them undone at the top and saunters back over to where he was left, looking around for where the time traveler might have gone. "Righ' then, I'm ready!" He calls out…. and waits.

This would be a good time for Hiro to come back. He doesn't. Timing is off, or maybe abandoning in Edgar in—

April 14, 2009

Moab, Utah

— is his way of granting freedom.

Then, there's the sound of a screen door slamming open, from another angle of the house and currently out of sight to Edgar, then the scrabbling of paws on the gravel of a driveway. A male voice nags at Edgar's hearing— "Horace, get back here!"


October 15, 2010

New York City

Wooden paneling, wooden floors, and wooden stools absorb the lights of the pub. It's filled with patrons, and a small group of men gather around one particular storyteller as he shares a story that appeals to all present. The storyteller is a man who can easily get the attention of his audience. His green button-up shirt and dark wash blue jeans add to his already relaxed appearance, especially as Brad Russo leans back in the barstool. The stout in front of him is half drunk, likely the fourth or better of the night.

The grin pasted on his face is lopsided as he shares his story, "— it was a bachelor's party! I mean I was freakin' 28, the show had only just started and they were glorious, man! They were freakin' glorious!" Some drunks' lips loosen on the third or fourth drink. His hands move a good eight inches from his chest, simulating the strippers' ample bosoms, "And there were like two gals — I'm telling you, it happened! Not since then though — one woman kinda man and ehn! Like it's not that awesome!" The stout is slammed down on the counter before Brad runs a hand through his hair.

"Excuse me."

Over Russo's shoulder, Hiro stands conspicuous a couple of feet away from him. The sword hilt at his back juts like an exclamation point to further underline his own stern stare at the other man, 5'6" worth of unimpressed samurai seeming to wait patiently for Brad to pay attention. A glance to his drink, then to the television personality's face. "You are late for your destiny." Pointedly, a paper crane is set down on the counter, avoiding where errant drops of beer have smeared a thin puddle on the surface.

One the patrons could swear he did not see Hiro even approach. Just appeared, man.

Hiro's interruption earns a furrowing of Brad's eyebrows. His expression relaxes, however, at the crane. His attempts to conceal his amusement fail him somewhat as the dimples crater into his cheeks. He twists on his stool and brings the glass to his lips again before stifling a rather skeptical chuckle followed by a shake of his head. "Man, K went to a lot of trouble this time! I mean though, seriously, kudos for her!" He raises the glass into the air to toast, "To K, and her efforts at becoming the new Bradley Russo in terms of jokes!"

Hiro is issued an overemphatic wink before he chuckles again, "Or am I supposed to humour her? Do you get paid if I don't play along? I know how she operates… cheap." He whispers too loudly, "She calls it efficiency. I call it caring only about the bottom line, but hey! I want ya to get paid my good man!"

Only a blank stare, does Brad Russo achieve, before impatience has Hiro stretching his fingers and glancing with consideration to the other bar-goers. Patiently, he picks up the paper crane and slips it back into a pocket, before, with snake-swift speed, he's reaching out a hand to grab Russo's sleeve. With a rush of air, both man cleanly vanish from the bar.

Conversation immediately dies in the near vicinity of the bar, interrupted by sporadic, uncertain laughter. Evos. Those— those crazy funsters.

April 14, 2009

Moab, Utah

Still gripping his glass from the Manhattan bar, Russo is standing with a view of the stretching Utah desert in the midday, Hiro just next to him. The sounds of dog growls, yelling, and small chaos attracts the time travelers attention, glancing over his shoulder towards where a pitbull has his teeth imbedded in the cotton of Edgar's— dress— and seems intent on worrying it with vicious headshakes and snarls. There's a young man running out of the house with a shotgun that he is hamhandedly trying to load.

"What the fuck! Who the fuck're you!"

Hiro sighs.

Vanishing from a crowd with little explanation as to why has but one effect on Brad, "What the hel — " the thought, however, is interrupted by the presence of a shotgun, " — lo!" His palms rest atop his head. "Holy shit! What kind of fuckin' prank is this?" While he might not swear often, when he's drunk enough, and the situation warrants it, cursing is certainly on the menu.

His hands remain where they are as he gapes at hero and then back to the kid with the shotgun. "Uh… I'm… I'm Bradley Russo… from The Advocate… this is the strange fellow who gave me a crane and then kidnapped me and…" then his gaze moves to Edgar, "And that is a friend of… wait. Are you wearing a dress? Is that what this is about? Get the drunk guy into a dress…?"

The pitbull isn't the only thing growling viciously, Edgar's got both his hands on the hem of his dress and is playing a game of tug of war with the angry dog. "Leggo my dress!!" The carnie's bellows haven't exactly gone unnoticed by the local yokels, they're placing bets on who's going to win. The kid with the shotgun has a quarter on the dog.

"Damnable mutt! I said give me back my dress!!" With a quick tug, Edgar yanks the material hard and it rips between the mutt's teeth, sending the speedster reeling into the dirt on his bottom. Giving the dog a scowl and a sniff, Edgar gets up and brushes himself off. "Tha's righ' dog.. I'm the alpha!" And he leans in barking back at the pit causing it to whimper.

The teenager with the gun, now loaded and only a little shakily gripped, stares at Russo without comprehension, flicking a glance to tiny samurai, before he's pivoting around to aim the gun at Edgar. "What are you doing with my mom's clothes!" A blue-eyed flick of a glance to where Edgar's prison garb was formerly abandoned, and the kid's eyes widen. "Oh shit. You're like some escaped convict serial killer crossdresser motherfucker! I've seen Con Air! I'm going to blow your fuckin' brains— woah."

That last woah is mostly due to the fact that his shotgun has disappeared from his hands, in the same moment that Hiro disappeared at Russo's side. Reappearing directly behind him, shotgun gripped more like a club than a gun, especially as the stock is rammed into greasy teenage skull, dropping the young man like a sack of bricks.

The dog pees in place, and scuttles back towards the house, a thread of floral fabric hanging from its maw.

"Now," Hiro says, lowering the gun as opposed to pointing it at anyone. "We are running out of time to save Melissa Pierce."

"Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait!" It's a simple request as Bradley holds up his hands towards Hiro. "The crane meant something? It wasn't some sad elaborate, moderately stalker-ish prank cooked up by the producer who knows my every move and was oddly aware of the amount of time I'd been spending on Staten Island lately?" Russo's eyes narrow skeptically at Hiro before flitting over to Edgar, "Are you in on this?" His mouth gapes slightly as his arms are drawn around his chest, into a tight self-hug.

"Look Missy can't have gotten herself in more trouble unless this about that rocket she stole," his nose wrinkles involuntarily at the notion of stealing, his personal repulsion to the act all-too-apparent, even yesterday when she'd told him. His weight shifts from one foot to the other. "And why should we believe you anyways? You're just some random kidnapper…" there's a pause as Brad's mouth gapes open at Edgar, "… unless you work for him?" There's another pause before he's shaking his head, "What the hell is going on here?"

"S'called redemption cousin," Edgar says calmly as he finishes tying the bit of torn skirt off into a cute little tee. Primping the sleeves, he shrugs his shoulders a little and fluffs out the front. The dress is too big for him which means that boy's mother must be some kinda wonderfully proportioned.

Sauntering over to the other two, he gives them a raised eyebrow and a tight thin line of the lips before gesturing out into the desert. "Where's Melissa then? Wha' kinda trouble she been gettin' into?"

"The course of her life is being redirected," Hiro says, all solemn words and straight face, even as he crawls a speculative look over Edgar's appearance, glances towards the clothes line where the perfectly acceptable T-shirt flags in the wind, neglected, unloved. Being one to not sweat the details, Hiro glances to Russo to include him in the conversation. "We are in Utah, during April of 2009. There is a prison that was raided by— by terrorists," and this is said with a tone that this is not his choice of phrase at all.

There's a knowing sort of look to Edgar, as Hiro considers him, then offers the shotgun to the speedster as opposed to Russo, standing cynical and inebriated to his left. "Melissa was flung forward into the future by a week after this happened, and I believe someone has gone into the past to target her. Perhaps give her back to Homeland Security, or kill her.

"I don't know. But it is your destiny to prevent this from happening, or to return to a present that is significantly altered by the villain's actions."

"You're shitting me!" Brad's eyes widen considerably, but his lips quirk into a kind of gaped smile, somewhere between shock and good humour. "Fuck I can't be in 2009, I have a show coming up! It's my show! You can't have the show without the host! And how can someone do something in the past? If anyone can change anything in their past then why don't they change it from the start? And if the past is the present than the present is the future so we have to stay in the past to make the future possible?" In all of his reasoning, somewhere, somehow Russo has become cross-eyed.

"Who is looking for her?! And HOW can we fix that which we don't know will happen? I mean… if we're in the past doesn't that mean that we already succeeded lest we wouldn't be here?" His eyes squint, his confusion all too pervasive in the questions. Nothing like confusing someone who clarifies things for a living…

Liberating the shotgun from Hiro's hand, Edgar balances it gingerly between his own before hopping it up into a firmer and manlier grip. Russo… Well… One of the carnie's eyebrows is lofted high as he regards the object of his landlady's affection, the questions about him clearly spelled out all over his face. The one that's said out loud? "D'you always talk so much? Y'don' think… wi' all the abilities ou' there… sum'one can't go back an' forth through time?"

It's not the first time Edgar's traveled like this, the strange correlation betwen his initial escape from the penitentiary and now, it gives him a little thing to cling to. Rolling his eyes at the other man, the juggler plucks the glass out of his hand and takes a long bunch of swigs before handing it back empty. "Now then… You're 'ere for a purpose, if you don' wan'teh believe it's you're own redemption, then a' least do i' for mine."

Hiro has turned his back on questions, stooping to search through the fallen teen's pockets in methodical movements. A slim wallet is inspected, but left alone, ultimately — but a shiny set of keys is observed, and acquired, Hiro standing as Edgar says his piece. There's a speculative look towards a mud-red car baking in the heat on the gravel driveway, the shade of scraggly trees casting shifting shadows on its steel shell.

The time traveler tosses keys in the air, catches them again, and turns back towards the other two men. From a pocket, he takes out a sliver of newspaper— one that reads a later date than the 14th of April, as it is now— and holds it out for inspection. "A man was killed today, and his car stolen. The postcognitive I am working with believes it to be tied to Melissa Pierce."

Edgar keeps getting stuff today, while Russo loses stuff — this time, the former gains a set of car keys, but the latter does get offered the newspaper clip in turn. Describes the car, a blue pickup truck, the name of the driver who was killed with some kind of poison, likely an Evolved attack, and that he was only discovered a few days later than today.

"Find the car, save Melissa," Hiro summaries, succinctly. "Rhys says you should drive west on the Utah State Route 12. It is not so far from here." He looks to Russo, now, mouth pressing into a line of thought, before he adds, "It is important that Edgar Smythe not go alone. I cannot tell you the details, but the rescue may fail if you choose not to go."

A beat, before he adds, a little more vindictively, "Also, I can leave you here if I want to."

"Redemption? Sorry to say it, but some people aren't meant to be redeemed, friend," Brad replies with just a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone. With a heavy sigh he glances between the man. It seems he's already in the past. With a hard, rather audible swallow, he frowns. He's still confused. Of course that could be the influence of the liquor. "Even if time travel is possible, then how can it navigate the abyss that is the space-time continuum?"

He scowls at the more vindictive comment, but his head shakes. "Fine. Fine, I'll help. I don't know what good I can be…" And he really doesn't. "I'm the host of a news program … and even if I have experience…" He frowns a little before shrugging. He's resigned, there's little he can say or do except follow directions right now. With a heavy sigh he reaches out for the keys, "…but I drive."

Giving Russo an incredulous stare, Edgar just freezes with the keys in the palm of his hand not arguing as the television host grabs them. He stares after the drunk for a few steps before turning to Hiro with a grimace, "You sure 'e's s'posed teh be wi' me? No' sum'one else? Maybe Peter the Poof'er even tha' Carmichael fellow? I don' even know wha' 'alf the words 'e's sayin' means." Shrugging, he ambles along after the other man, pumping the shotgun once. Like a hero.

"Abyss of the space time continuum?" The speedster asks after Russo, "Your mother's abyss! We go' work teh do!" A pause as Edgar places a single hand on the passenger door, "Think we can ge' tattooes while we're 'ere?"

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