Participants:
| Scene Title | Tricky Ricky and Charlie's Angels |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Berlin returns to Staten Island with backup to find out who sold Ricky Daselles a critical piece of information. |
| Date | March 20, 2018 |
The Rookery is one of the most dangerous places in the United States, a haven for drug and gun running, human trafficking, and murder. Even with the formation of the Safe Zone and the gradual reconstruction of America at its doorstep, the Rookery still proves to be the pustulent head of Staten Island's infected underbelly.
Under clouded skies and cooling temperatures, the Rookery's worn down streets are dappled by recently fallen rain, and that fresh smell overpowers the stink of gasoline and sweat that seems so common here. This particular neighborhood where members of Wolfhound have come is considered the Rookery's heart, this terrible reflection of the Safe Zone where derelict apartment complexes lie boarded up, burned out husks of cars lay on the street side, and graffiti paints nearly every building and surface. Steam rises up from trash-clogged sewer grates, rain soaked newspaper pages lie patch worked across the sidewalk, and homeless junkies are huddled in shallow alleyways and stoops of closed up businesses.
On one particularly run down street, there lies a brick-faced building of crumbling appearance with barred windows on the ground floor. The old sign that once proclaimed Tucker's Pawn Shop is now unlit and left to fade further than it already was. Near the pawn shop entrance, there is an entrance to a stairwell marked with a smashed in intercom and buzz-lock system that leads up to apartments above the pawn shop.
It's here where a man known on Staten Island as Tricky Ricky resides, a drug runner and generally untrustworthy heap of a man. But Berlin Beckett has dealt with him before, dealt with Richard Daselles on his own terms, dealt with the Rookery and dealt with the sight of human detritus that is Staten Island.
"I'm really not sure this is a good idea." Berlin didn't come alone to the Rookery, not a second time. At her right side, Colette Demsky walks with hands tucked into the pocket of her leather jacket, the loose trail of her blue scarf swishing freely in front of her. "But the last thing I'm going t'do is leave you two out here on your own." Beside Colette is her close friend Lucille Ryans, whom Colette casts a side-long and blind look to as they walk.
When Berlin pulls open the shattered frame of the door that leads to the apartment stairwell and heads up the concrete steps to the second floor, she can hear the muffled and distant sounds of an argument; a man and woman's voice raised, something smashing, a child crying. Colette steps in behind her, looking over her shoulder to Lucille, as they ascend the crumbling steps and are confronted with the pungent aroma of freshly deposited vomit.
One floor above a dog is barking and someone has their radio on too loud, but far enough away that only the generic bass beats can be heard through the ceiling. Apartment 201 is the first door on her right, same as before. It's numbers have long since been peeled off — they were copper, but copper is valuable — and all that remains now are the faded markings that ghostly show suggestions of numbers with red permanent marker poorly filling them in. The door looks like it was recently kicked in and the door frame is splintered, but it is held shut by a brick balanced behind the door. A paper sign reads Please Knock and is taped to the door.
"Fuck, fucking— fuck, fucking, fuckers, fuck." The litany of monosyllabic profanity coming through the partly open door elicits a look from Colette to Lucille, then to Berlin. One dark brow slowly rises.
Ricky is having a day.
The chaos of this particular apartment building doesn't seem to be a surprise to Berlin and she makes her way up to Ricky's floor as if nothing at all strange was going on around them. Yelling, barking, that's all just the soundtrack of this place. But when she sees Ricky's door, that's different. And the litany from inside, too. Unless Ricky's shitty music has gotten even shittier somehow.
But it's alarming enough that Berlin rushes to the door and ignores the sign. She pushes against the door to try to shift the brick. "Ricky?" she calls into the apartment, maybe to let him know this isn't a kick in your door visit. "Are you okay?" He might be a drug dealer, but Berlin still seems concerned for him. She glances back over at her fellow Hounds, her expression apologetic. Maybe she was expecting less profanity.
Lucille hates these places. Don’t get her wrong, she fights at the Crucible on Staten Island. Has sources herself around here but the place is more dirty than it use to be if that was possible. Here though, she was hoping there were answers in this rundown building. The fighting and the crashes in the various apartments make her grimace as she makes eye contact with Colette and nods at Berlin in a sign of solidarity.
As the come to the apartment door that's barely staying close Lucille raises an eyebrow, trouble? Her gaze finds the pair with her and she flexes her fingers and shrugs a shoulder to Berlin. Ricky is crazy, she's heard of him. Ran past him a couple times, nothing meaningful. Shady lowlife types always moaning about something.
She stays ready though because.. shady bitches be shady and she's not about to let anything happen out here, Colette’s got her back, she's got hers. They both have Berlin’s back. Her own worn dark brown leather jacket has a hand in it, her other fiddles with the silver locket hanging from her neck, the scar partially healed.
In all that time, answer.
Colette reaches inside of her jacket and unholsters her sidearm, flipping off the safety as she takes a step back from the door and levels the gun in its direction. She nods to Berlin and Lucille, a soundless assent that she's covering them. Then, without further indication, she shimmers and distorts like a mirage and disappears from sight, save for a faintly visible outline around her.
The noises of the apartment building continue. A thumping radio, barking dog, a full-tilt domestic dispute a few doors down. There's also a more subtle sound, the rumble of a generator in the distance. This place must have done electricity. bit no noises from the apartment.
Berlin nods to Colette and turns back to the door. When there's no answer, no nothing, she pulls her own pistol and pivots back to shove the door open further. Without putting most of herself in shooting range. Just in case. There's a glance toward the domestic dispute, because now she's paying attention, but when she moves it's to go into Ricky's apartment.
Her gun is ready, but pointed downward. With Colette and Lucille with her, she can be more cautious as she starts to sweep the apartment. She'd hate to accidentally shoot Ricky and make his day all the worse.
Eyebrows raise as Berlin nods to them and they wait for.. nothing as nobody comes to the door. As Colette draws her sidearm and shimmers out of view, Lucille pulls a pair of dark sunglasses out from her jacket pocket, sliding them on as her eyes swim from their natural blue to that golden fire. She sends her bio radar out hoping to discern if Ricky has company or not.
A gloved hand goes to her pocket and she fingers the throwing stars sitting there. She has a sidearm as well but the space isn't big and there were two guns out already. Luce’s ability and her ‘ninja foo foo’ weapons as her brother called them would work in this situation.
She does unsheath her knife from her boot, the tilt held at ready in her grip, there was a slight curve to it the blade a little longer than your average hunting knife. Pushing her field in front of her as they move forward, she makes sure to cover Berlin’s blind spots while Colette covers both of theirs.
When Lucille senses out the ten feet past the door she feels nothing beyond her known allies. As Berlin steps into the room and she follows, Colette moves quietly and unseen behind. The apartment they file into is atrocious. It somehow looks like both too many people and no one lives here all at once. Open pizza boxes are piled up near the door with crumbs on the linoleum floor and there isn't a place that delivers to Staten Island so their age is questionable. Portions of that very gaudy avocado flooring are peeling up in places. The paint is quite literally curling off the walls in spots and the flannel-covered couches have cigarette burn marks in them and tears in the upholstery where yellow foam pokes out.
A small cathode tube television rests on a tray opposite the couch, squeezed between a bookshelf and a dry fish tank full of musky smelling rocks. The television doesn't look like it's been used in years, and an old battery powered radio is perched atop it that seems much more recent.
About fifteen feet away in the open concept but tiny kitchen Berlin spies Ricky laying face down on the linoleum. He's wearing one flip-flop, a pair of orange, tiger striped swimming trunks, and a like green cashmere sweater. There's a faint odor of vomit clinging to everything.
“What the fuck.” Is a statement Colette makes rather than a question.
The state of the apartment doesn't seem to be a shock to Berlin, not until she spots Ricky on the floor. She holsters her weapon as she rushes over that way. It's quite a scene, but she doesn't seem to be bothered by the smell at least. Maybe later. She crouches next to him, reaching to move him so he's not face down. Her fingers move to find a pulse, but more than that, she closes her eyes— which her fellow hounds know means she's using her power to figure out what's wrong. Or if it's too late, which is her worry.
"Anyone else here?" she asks, her tone distant. Bland. Like it might be an unimportant question. Obviously, it isn't, since she's lingering down there and moving him to lie on his back instead of on his stomach. Her eyes don't open yet, though, like there might be more wrong with him than a quick look can determine.
Feeling nothing besides her friends next to her makes her chest tighten but she does think of the limitation in her range as she tilts her head, following after Berlin. Lucille has her knife at ready when they venture in and they discover Ricky on the floor face first. “Shit.” Is uttered at the same time as Colette’s curse.
Keeping her senses out in her range she walks around the apartment looking as Berlin attends to Ricky, trying to pick up anyone else in the place. Trying not to confuse the people who could be in the next apartment with someone would be in the bathroom or something. Her movements quiet as she sweeps the place, blue eyes surveying the place taking in details, the mess makes it hard to discern much but she looks anyway.
He was just swearing, she's not sure what could have caused this to happen so quickly. She mulls over using her ability to flood his body with adrenaline, perhaps that would wake him up. But also have him in a.. not pleasant state. He’d be awake though and able to talk.
“I think we’re clear,” Colette answers Berlin’s inquiry, though she cautiously steps around the human detritus of the apartment, offering a squint at the couch. Gun still raised, she moves over to one of the windows and checks the street, eyes closing. “I’ll keep an eye out down below,” comes with a slight tension in her voice and a furrow of her brows from a concentrated application of her ability.
A few moments later, Ricky lets out a snarling grumble of breath and rolls onto his side and just projectile vomits in a line across the kitchen floor. “Ohhh, shit… oh, sweet fucking shit.” Coughing, he slaps a hand onto the tile, pushes up on one wobbly elbow, and then squints as he spots Berlin just a foot away from him. “Awh man, what the… fuck? Why’m I… on the floor?” Sitting up fully, Ricky looks down at his feet. “Aw man, my flip-flop.” Of which he is missing one.
“Sh-hi-hi-hi-t,” Ricky spits out in a chortle of laughter. “Well, them Arrowood boys sure are in for a fucking good time. Uh, is it Wednesday still?” It is, in fact, not. It is Sunday.
It's a strange thing when someone vomiting is good news. Semi good news, anyway. He's not dead, that's the main thing. But Berlin still stands up and steps away from him because it may be good, but it is still gross. She even makes a face over it. Ricky's seen that face before, of course, because he lives here.
"Oh good," she says flatly, "you're alive."
She has good shoes on, Ricky, please don't mar them.
"It's Sunday," she also says, before she puts her hands on her hips and looks down at him. "I thought dealers were supposed to sell the drugs, not do them. What the hell, Ricky?" There's a gesture to… well, everything. "Clean yourself up, for my sake, yeah? I have a couple friends with me, we want to make a good impression, right?" It's way too late for that. Truly. Deeply.
When Colette and Lucille don't find anyone else in the apartment, the Ryans woman doesn't necessarily relax but she is on guard. And then there's Ricky projectile vomiting near Berlin. It makes her think of the nausea inducing aspect of her ability and she tries not to smile at all. It's gross but Lu has never really gotten over the effect of that, it just looks so insane every time.
A quirk of an eyebrow and Lucille places a hand softly on her hips as she locks eyes with Berlin, “This, is the man with all the goods?” She's teasing at Berlin softly before regarding Ricky behind those dark sunglasses.
Say it's for dramatic effect or maybe she's having trouble really seeing behind the dark lenses but Lucille raises her sunglasses onto the top of her head, leaning her hip against a nearby wall. Eyes of amber gold flash at the man as she smiles towards him. Luce does not walk near the puke though, the smell is enough.
“Yeah, yeah I'm the guy with— you know— the goods.” Ricky shudderingly agrees with a hand at his stomach. “And,” he flicks a look at Berlin. “One: I don't remember inviting you in, which I suppose might be just as much on me as it is you. Two: when making your own hallucinogenic drugs you gotta make sure they toight.” He says that last bit with a bounce at his knees and two waggling hand signs that don't mean a goddamn thing.
Slowly, Colette opens her eyes and looks squarely at Lucille, then over to Berlin. “I'm seconding her. This is your contact?” The incredulity seethes off of the photokinetic. Ricky withers under the scrutiny, grabbing a pot holder from the kitchen as he does to wipe his face clean. Then he just— throws it in the sink.
“Ok,” Ricky raises two hands as if bracing himself against the world. “So you— wait Sunday?” He looks around the room. “Daaaaamn, I make the good shit!” With a snap of his fingers and a clap of his hands, Ricky starts to just walk into the living room.
“Focus.” Colette snaps.
Ricky stops mid-stride and cranes a slow look back at Berlin. “Ok, yeah uh— are you here for something? Like, you already bought my mail, babe. You want t’score some Refrain? Gigglepig? Jingle Jangle?” Now he's just making stuff up.
"You said fuck a lot, so I took that to mean we were welcome," Berlin says, her tone dry. Her brow furrows when he keeps talking, because that's generally a bad thing unless someone has given him money. But she follows him out into the living room, only to be met with the disbelief from her two best girlfriends. "He knows his stuff," she says, although she might feel like that comes out as too much of a compliment, because there's only a beat before she continues. "When you're looking for scum, right? You need a bottom feeder." Is that the right analogy? She looks doubtful for a moment, but then decides to let it stand.
Her attention turns back to Ricky, though, and she puts her hands on her hips. "From a consumer standpoint," she notes, "the vomit situation is not a great seller. But also, not what we're here about. It's about the mail. Babe," she says, layered with as much sarcasm as a twenty year old can muster. It's a lot. "Or, more accurately, it's about your friend who did the smash and grab with a side of pyrotechnics."
Golden eyes flick towards Ricky as he enters the living room, with Colette covering the window and the outside Lucille purposefully has chosen the wall closest to the hall outside so that she may be made aware of any people coming their way from inside the building.
“Stay. On topic,” is the firm reminder from Lucille, seconding her friend as well. In the pit of her stomach the woman begins to feel doubt that this sad sack has any useful information. He could hopefully remember a name at least, she hopes as she watches from the wall.
She allows Berlin to take point this being her source and all, she doesn't know how to handle Ricky as Berlin does.
Making a noise in the back of his throat, Ricky scratches the back of his head and side-eyes Berlin. “Look, I know what I'm about…” then as he looks around his apartment he amends, “I'm just not sure where I've been for the last, uh, couple days. So, whatever.” He wanders over to the kitchen counter, leans against it and then hunched over and exhales a drawn-out sigh.
As Ricky centers himself, Colette blinks away the distant look in her eyes. “Nobody around,” she informs the others, then steps away from the window and moves to stand just inside the apartment door, noticing the signs of forced entry. One brow goes up, but she doesn't ask anything. This is Berlin’s contact and she knows better than to push someone else’s informant.
Ricky finally holds out a hand in Berlin’s direction. Fingers curl open and closed against his palm. The request is an obvious one, payment. “It's gonna need t’be worth my while for this, ok? Because the kinds of folks who do this sorta work aren't who you'd call friendly.” He opens one eye, looks at Berlin. “Two hundred.”
Colette makes a noise at the amount, shifting a wordless look over to Berlin.
"You should think about getting a spotter," Berlin notes. It's dry. It's also some real advice, though. She watches him move to the counter, her frown deepening. But she looks over to Colette, to give her a nod at the information. "Thanks." She seems okay with giving Ricky his moment, only refocusing on him when that hand comes out her way.
She looks at it, then at him with an arched eyebrow. The number doesn't seem to shock Berlin— or she's been practicing her poker face. "I'm friendly, though, aren't I?" More or less. More than some people he knows, certainly. "And I've never led anybody back to your door," she pauses to look back to it, the state it's in, "have I? Your friend will never know we were here." Perhaps because she's anticipating Rue's version of a chat with the arsonist. "One hundred."
There's something of a soft hmph! emitted from Lucille as she watches Ricky closely, taking a moment to watch as Colette changes position, she stays where she is keeping her biotic field out to the edges of her range. Ricky gets a slow look up and down as her eyes narrow and fists tighten in her pocket.
She wants to rip her glove off and slide her hand down his face. It would make this go much faster, it would also burn Berlin’s source and so Lucille gives the attempt at a smile but it's more like a feral grin. “The mess,” eyes sweeping across the floor and the apartment and then him. She trails off with a roll of her shoulder.
As Berlin makes her counter offer, Lucille’s face is at an impasse of emotion. She does want to note, that thinks place reeks. This whole situation was funky as fuck.
Ricky offers a look at Berlin, then to the floor, then just stays doubled over the counter with his head in his hands. Finally, Ricky just slaps the counter like a wrestler tapping out. Then, he pushes an empty glass over toward Berlin. “Just put it in the tip jar.”
He gives her a sidelong look, then just groans loudly. “Guy goes by the alias Limerick.” Colette and Lucille both look different shades of green at that.
“Fuck,” Colette sharply exhales, taking dark hair back from her face. “Fucking fuck.” Ricky slants a look in her direction, laughing to himself.
“I take it you've met?”
Colette shoots a dagger-look at Ricky, who just purses his lips and eyes his “tip cup” and nudges it an inch closer to Berlin. “Yeah,” Ricky agrees. “So he's usually around the Rookery. I dunno where t’find him, what because I have no desire to be folded up like a human fucking paper airplane, so you're shit outta luck there.”
Making a noise in the back of her throat, Colette stays quiet about how she knows him, offering a shake of her head to Lucille. “We should go,” is all she says to Berlin on the topic.
The name doesn't mean anything to Berlin, so Colette's response gets some surprise. She watches the back and forth a little before she pulls some money out of an inner pocket of her coat. Bills are plucked out, rolled up, and dropped into his cup. She doesn't touch it. "Seems like we might be able to find him on our own anyway," she notes with a look over at Lucille. Maybe like, with a bunch of them all at the same time.
"Thanks, Ricky." She even seems to mean that. She turns to start to go, because Colette is right, they should get out of here. But before she goes far, she steps back to tap Ricky on the shoulder with a fist. "Whatever you took? Don't take it again. It really fucked you up." The other Hounds know, at least, that she knows what she's talking about there. More than just passing out and throwing up. He doesn't, but maybe the fact that she's bringing it up at all might sink in eventually.
That name was enough to knock Lucille’s head in a loop and she visibly bucks in shock. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.” Eyes go to Colette as she thinks back to just how exactly they know the man. Her back stiffens, those times were chaotic, scary and she wasn't sure if she was going to make it. Colette wasn't so much a reminder of that dark time but an anchor to remind her she didn't just dream all of it up, she had made it out with a friend.
More than one.
Luce removes her hands from her jacket and pulls the sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose to cover her odd colored eyes. “See you Ricky,” she's been ready to leave since they got to the trash den. There's a moment as she comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Colette and she offers the woman an openly confused expression. She knows the world is small but, “Next stop, ladies?”
As the three head out, Ricky calls after them. “Hey!” One elbow propped up on the countertop, still the only thing keeping him up. “Limerick’s just a fence, and I dunno who was selling through him but— he does business with the Arrowood brothers. Watch your fucking backs. And,” Ricky bobs his head to the side, “if you can't, the just don't mention me when they're feeding you to their dogs.”
Halfway out the door, Colette stops and looks back at Ricky at that warning, then just raises her brows and nods in the way that implies fuck this entire island. She drags the door shut on her way out, and in the hall turns back to Berlin and Lucille.
“We should get the fuck out of here for now, head back to the mainland. Lucy and I can catch you up to speed on who Limerick is,” and that elicits a look over to Lucille and back to Berlin. “But I might know someone else we can talk to… But,” Colette runs one hand through her hair. “That can wait.”
Pausing at the shout, Berlin pivots back to listen. His addition makes her frown, but she nods. "Alright. Noted." She doesn't reassure him that they won't spill their source, but mostly because she's pretty sure he knows that. And assurances won't actually help him worry less. So instead, she just leaves.
"Ricky's always worried about the wrong people finding out about this arrangement, but I've never seen him like that before." She looks between the others, her head tilting. "Or the two of you, for that matter." Which is to say, she would really like to be caught up. "Let's head back to the Bunker. Debrief and plan for the next interview. Yeah?" It's likely this suggestion comes from concern for her friends, since the name has shaken them some. "Seems like it'd be smart to take this one carefully."
Limerick.
The name echoes in her mind as she stalks out the door with the others no goodbyes reassurances from her. Her mind already on the Rookery before she's snapped out of her thoughts by Colette and Berlin’s. Carefully. It's important not to muck this up.
Her eyes center on Colette’s blind ones, the golden iris shielded by the dark sunglasses. “I'm…” She nervously bites her lip. She's not usually like this, not out in the field. “I'm with you both on how you want to handle this.” The desire to know just what Limerick has gotten himself into is strong.”
“Let's head inland like she says. We’ll catch you up.” Her tone is bitter.
The noise Colette makes as she moves into the hall is an uncomfortable one, and as she looks over her shoulder to Lucille and Berlin it’s clear she has her own story to tell. “Let’s go get a drink…” she recommends, brows furrowed and posture tense.
“…and I’ll tell you about what happened last year.”