cardinal_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Visitation
Synopsis Cardinal slips free of his holding cell to pay Deckard a brief visit on his way out. Card knows more than he should. Deck has anger issues.
Date March 9, 2009

NYPD Headquarters

Prepare for transport. That's what they said earlier this morning.

Deckard hasn't done much in the way of preparation. The jumpsuit they gave him to wear, flagrant orange, is still folded neatly at the foot of his cot. He's in slacks and an undershirt, dress shirt left to dry in its damp spread over the sink, various tattoos laid bare in the mean time. 666 at his shoulder blade in inexpert blue, a snarl-fanged serpent roped thick around a cross at his shoulder in black. A pair of simple prison-inked eyes stare blankly out from the meet of collar bones and shoulder sockets. He's wearing an eye patch, and his hands are shaking a little, but beyond some fresh bandaging wrapped white around his right wrist, he could look worse.

Currently he's leaning against the barred door at the front of his cramped cell, good eye tipped up at whatever's going on in the cell overhead. Probably something he shouldn't be watching.

There was no resistance from Cardinal as he was brought in, booked, and processed, but precious little cooperation, either; with no identification on him and no verbal claim of an identity, it'll take a bit for his prints to be run and his identity and criminal record to come up. He was cooling his heels in a cell for long enough that there wasn't anyone paying too close attention, at which point he simply melted away into the shadow he was leaning against.

No doubt the police'll have a field day figuring that one out. Is he a teleporter? Did he phase through the wall? Did he just turn invisible and walk out when they came in to check? They'll have to call in the professionals to figure all of that out, by which time the thief'll be long gone. Of course, he'll probably only get away with this once…

…but it's long enough for him to drop in on an old acquaintance. As Deckard stares up at the ceiling, his thoughts are interrupted by a hollow whispering from the shadows of the cell's bars across his back. "Well," the shadow murmurs, "I see you got your eye back, Deckard."

Deckard's in his own world. Probably not a pleasant place to be, but distracting enough that it takes him way longer than it should to realize there's another voice in here with him. One that is familiar.

Hands slacked out of their tremor-ridden grip on the bars, he twists enough to peer over his shoulder after the sound. The eye patch sees nothing. Then again, neither does the eye he still has. "No." He didn't. Failing to see the humor in any insinuation otherwise, he sighs to himself and glances hazily over the cell one more time. "Are you really here?"

"No? I thought you would have, by now." There's silence for a few moments, just a hint of guilt in that tone, perhaps. Perhaps. It could easily be faked, after all. "I'm here. Why does everyone always ask that? There can't be that many people who suffer from auditory hallucinations in this city."

"I don't suffer from auditory hallucinations." They're auditory, visual, and tangible. Completely different. Clearly.

If the silence is meant to represent guilt, Deckard isn't buying it. His scruffy head, scruffier than usual after a few days in a cell, turns back to face the rest of the block again upon noting that there's nothing to see. "So what's the deal? You missed me so much you snuck all the way in here and found me?"

"Actually, I just decided to stop in from the cell down the hall," replies the voice in a dry murmur, clinging to the bars as a darker shadow as the unshaven man glances back to them, "I was on my way out, thought I'd come say hello." A pause. "See how you were doing. This is complete bullshit, you know."

"You missed me so much you got arrested to come and see me," Deckard corrects himself, grip firming itself a little against a fresh run of the shakes. "I'm flattered." He doesn't sound flattered. More like drearily distracted and maybe a little annoyed, which is completely at odds with the fact that he has it in him to laugh a little at the definite bullshittiness of his situation. "You don't know the half of it."

"I hope you're not planning on staying here, though, and having all those old frame-up charges from Vanguard cleared," the shadow observes casually, "Because I believe that our… incredible pussy of a fellow acquaintance has some intentions on getting you out."

"Depends on how the next few days go." Head tipped forward against a space between the bars, he shrugs his tattooed shoulder. No strong feeling one way or the other. "If you're talking about who I think you're talking about, kid got shot in the head trying to save my life. You should pick a better pet name." Another short pause later, he tacks on: "Who told you about the Vanguard?"

"I'm not a complete idiot, Deckard," observes the voice with a snort of 'breath' from the bars about the man's head, "I make it a point to look up on the people I'm dealing with. Even the kid and his little organization. Don't get me wrong, his heart's in the right place, but…" It's left to trail off, the subject switching tracks slightly, "…he's pretty pissed at Ivanov right now, obviously."

"Neither am I. Some things are easier to look up than others. Who told you about the Vanguard?" The question is repeated with a mindless kind of deliberate absence of inflection and expression. Hard to tell if Deckard expects an answer, or if he's just making a point. Either way, his remaining eye slides sideways to the shadows all around and he straightens a little, mouth lined level while he listens. "He should be."

The question is just as easily ignored as it is repeated. Those shadows are dark, although as ever it's difficult to tell exactly where the shadow-walker is talking from. Very near, doubtless, due to the quiet murmuring of his mouthless 'voice'. "Do you actually know anything about this guy that he's so hot for? This killer?" A pause, "No, don't answer that. Doesn't matter. He had no fuckin' business pullin' you in like this while scum like Logan are— anyway. I shouldn't stay much longer, they'll figure out I'm gone, soon. Any messages you want sent along the vine?"

Anger paints tension into the wiry muscles strung long in his arms and across his chest, and Deckard turns more sharply around to the empty back of his cell when he's not answered a second time. Temper, temper. But there's nothing there to strike or bite or slam a door on, and he's left staring furiously at nothing. One staggered breath later, he doesn't look like he had much intention of talking anyway. "No messages."

"Someone's in a bad mood." Bone-dry, the comment, one that likely won't discourage the other man's mood. "Alright, then. See you around, Deckard." The shadow pauses, then adds, "Soon."

Soon. Jaw clenched and flexed hollow, Deckard nods. Anything else he might have said is swallowed down in the same gesture, and he finally tips his head to look over at the orange jumpsuit that's he's been carefully ignoring for the last several hours. Fuck.

March 9th: There Is No Protocol For Dealing With Nalani Hollingwood
March 9th: Blonde Bombshells In Prison
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