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| Scene Title | West Side Story |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Where the Jets and the Sharks are replaced by Humanis First and the Evolved population of New York City. |
| Date | August 20, 2009 |
Chelsea, Market
It's storming out. Rainwater the color of ash batters wave after wave across a partially caved in section of the Chelsea Market, staining elegant bricking black across a haggard archway and the oversized clock it still frames overhead after all these years. The rust-eaten hands are poised just short of noon — or midnight. Depends on whose looking.
Vacant display cases and abandoned carts litter shattered tiles with no sense of order; sickly grass has pushed up through the cracks beneath snaggled gaps in the ceiling where sunlight might filter in a day nicer than this one. Runoff slogs through crooked struts instead, miniature waterfalls lit ghastly white by the strobe flash of a lightning strike somewhere too close for comfort. All of this and the sun hasn't given up yet.
There's grey light enough to distinguish a compact figure squinting dubiously up at the rot-streaked face of the clock dribbling dead to his right side, pale skull easily distinguished against desolation and the black over black of his wardrobe. He got here early, as ever, and he's damp. Apparently Danko has no use for umbrellas where he might be better off having his hands free to hold a gun. Or a cigarette.
For all of Danko's quiet subtlety, the man he's waiting for lacks all of it, and is so contrary to Danko's quiet grace that he somehow loops back around into stealthy again, even when it seems like common sense should have been the death of him long ago. Worse yet is Bill Dean's propensity for shouting profanity at the top of his lungs while doing most of anything, a facet of his eccentricies that has not dulled one bit in the last few days. "…the fucking balls to do that? Make me lookin' like a fuckin' chump!" His voice rings off of the walls, drowns out beneath the boom of rolling thunder, and then rises back up in the midst of his tirade.
"You get any one'a my boys and I know they won't be no goddamned retards fro, the shallow end of the gene pool!" Finally coming into view as he steps out from a blown out section of wall, Bill's short height and bright red face, garish hawaiian shirt, and thankfully subdued khaki shorts and flip-flops. At his side, however, his work associates are far more subdued.
"Sir," the tone of voice from the round-faced and pale man walking beside Bill seems a bit hesitant, "we 'ad all'a the precautions y'told us to put in place. Maybe we jus' din'nae put the fear've God into 'em enough?" He's never been properly introduced, but both accent and appearance makes the nickname 'Irishman' fitting, even if no one's entirely certain he's from Ireland — or even Irish.
"You shouldn't have used an air-conditioned crate." The tall young man in the military fatigues with the buzz cut is David, one of Bill's "boys" who he brought down from upstate New York, and remarkably is the most level-headed of the trio. "If you just locked them up like we told you to, we wouldn't even be having this argument, Sir."
"Oh don' go flappin' yer fuckin' mouth at me about that y'little shit, you wanted me t'lock up a right perfect tracking device for those freaks, an' just let 'er die in the heat? Aye, fuckin' brilliant idea that is you stupid shit." As the Irishman and David continue to bicker back and forth, Bill's the only one who's calmed down as the distance through the market towards Danko narrows.
Raising his brows and smirking crookedly, Bill strides a little bit ahead of the other two, tucking his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "Evenin' Danko, you picked a mighty perfect spot what to go about meetin' in." There's a crooked cast to the sarcastic smile, eyes upturned to the gaps in the ceiling he makes poor attempts at avoiding, trying best not to be rained on. "Love what you've done with the place, though, s'very ah— open concept?"
The tenuous stir of craving that guides Danko's hand thoughtlessly in past the lapel of his coat gives over to distraction at the sound of at least one familiar voice echoing flat across wet brick. His hand falls and his head turns towards the conversation on a smooth swivel, eye sockets pitted black against the dank sweep of his skull.
Thunder shudders through the cavern of the Market at a delayed rumble, scattering dust in narrow sifts from whatever portions of the ceiling have managed to stay dry for this long. One voice, two voices, three are increasing in volume against the sink of powdered concrete into puddles pooled black. Bill brought muscle. That's okay. So did he.
The glance he casts sideways into the picked over remains of an abandoned bake shop is hardly covert. Neither is the deliberate stiffness with which he straightens his spine — shoulder evidently still locked in a little sore after his most recent encounter with the Ferry. Weather's making it worse, maybe. Regardless, he's topped out at his full 5'7" by the time Bill and his boys round into sight, face flat and posture decidedly a little too rigid to read as entirely friendly, even in the shadows.
"No cameras. No electricity." Irish and Fatigues each get a glance. Together they only qualify for one nod.
The tenuous stir of craving that guides Danko's hand thoughtlessly in past the lapel of his coat gives over to distraction at the sound of at least one familiar voice echoing flat across wet brick. His hand falls and his head turns towards the conversation on a smooth swivel, eye sockets pitted black against the dank sweep of his skull.
Thunder shudders through the cavern of the Market at a delayed rumble, scattering dust in narrow sifts from whatever portions of the ceiling have managed to stay dry for this long. One voice, two voices, three are increasing in volume against the sink of powdered concrete into puddles pooled black. Bill brought muscle. That's okay. So did he.
The glance he casts sideways into the picked over remains of an abandoned bake shop is hardly covert. Neither is the deliberate stiffness with which he straightens his spine — shoulder evidently still locked in a little sore after his most recent encounter with the Ferry. Weather's making it worse, maybe. Regardless, he's topped out at his full 5'7" by the time Bill and his boys round into sight, face flat and posture decidedly a little too rigid to read as entirely friendly, even in the shadows.
"No cameras. No electricity." Irish and Fatigues each get a glance. Together they only qualify for one nod.
"Ah, yes, gettin' back to your roots is it? You must be a boatload of fun on holiday camping trips. Have you ever been to the Everglades? God awful swamp that is…" Bill's nose wrinkles, brow furrowing as he abruptly switches topic without warning. "If it weren't for tweedle dumb an' tweedle fuckin' dee here," Bill jerks a thumb over his shoulder as he scuffs one flip-flop on the ground, angling a crooked stare up at the hole in the ceiling where rain falls through, "I'd have had a shiny little freak-girl here for you who can detect other little shitbags like herself. 'Cept somebody lost her!" Looking back over his shoulder at the Irishman and David, Bill's expression display that clearly nonplussed expression before his eyes dart over to Danko with no motion of his head.
"News flashed 'er face all 'cross it, Wendy Hunter." He turns back to regard Danko fully again, tongue rolling over his teeth. "I think we should maybe take a second whack at 'er, so we can avoid some unsightly little messes like tha' little Tanner problem?" Both of Bill's brows lift, then waggle at the notion of Samantha Tanner. "An' Channel Four's sayin' that the boy I sent to blow'm self up in Central Park was one'a them too, but— " there's a shake of his head, eyes uplifted towards Danko. "I'm thinkin' someone's tryin' to make us look a fool." There's a squint, and Bill's focus shifts past Danko, then back again. "What've you got bouncin' round in your head?"
Stealth can be a crucial element to intimidation, to a certain extent. And that extent is that the assholes that need to be intimidated need to know they're going to be intimidated. And that's when a sound needs to be made. The whistling of a chain flying through the air? That counts.
Passing through the shadows like temporary snapshots, Danko's muscle finally lets themselves be known to Bill and his boys. Though these boys are significantly more.. better. Two men, dressed in all black, from skimask to boot-ies set themselves firmly behind Bill and his crew. The assault rifles they carry are pointed at the ground, the third man however takes a unique tactic.
Dressed in black as well, Douglas is not in flack jackets and body armor. He wears a black wife beater, revealing the many different tattoos covering his arms. His black gloves work the long chain held in his hand, whirling a coil of it around as he paces, like one would a lasso. The third man also doesn't carry a gun on his person, that can be seen. But instead, strapped to his back is an axe.
One would think that the way Douglas stares at the back of Bill's head were as if he were staring at a fine pair of breasts in a tight shirt. Or something equally as interesting. His features remain mostly emotionless, except when his lips twitch up into a smirk now and then as he passes through the shadows.
The chain is caught in his hand, when Bill finishes speaking. It's Danko's turn to talk. Shh.
"…No technopaths," finished after a pause that sags heavy under the weight of resignation better suited to a man twice Danko's age, there's nothing the former marine can do to keep the lifeless grey of his eys from falling briefly after the slap of Bill's flipflops. He's in combat boots himself — no surprise there — and the only way they'd be any shinier is if he hadn't had to walk through a rainstorm to get here.
Runoff glistens dull off the pallor of his brow when he angles his jaw back up to scan cold over Bill's big red face. There's an incredulous air about him, poorly disguised in a tip of his head and a long drawn breath while his men make themselves known. Arrogant. Like he doesn't have time for this.
"While you've been off playing Jihad with the girls next door, we've been keeping watch over a possible Ferrymen Safehouse location on Staten Island." Crows feet cinch at the corners of his eyes, tension eeking into the lines through his neck when he looks sideways to Douglas and the others. His we was maybe more pointed than it actually sounded initially. "We're doing fine on our own without dragging extra bodies along for the ride. For now. What I need is ten men spoiling for a fight. I don't care where they come from or if they can follow an order or if they have guns."
Bill's brows have been absolutely arched ever since the arrival of Danko's backup. While the Irishman and David seem all too tense despite being in the company of 'brothers', Bill's remarkable detachment from reality affords him a unique look into the presence of highly trained sociopaths. "Oh God in heaven it's the lolliop guild!" He practically squeals the words out, clasping his hands together before firing an askance look towards Danko with a knife-like grin across his face. "If I'd have known I was going to get welcomed, I would've worn a proper pair of pants…" then, slightly less tongue in cheek despite the literal tongue rolling across the inside of his cheek, Bill stiffens up a bit and rests his hands on his hips.
"My boys aren't — largely — cannon fodder."
One of Bill's brows dips down, making him look remarkably incredulous. "So you're, what, goin' t'blow the whole building up? I'm not entirely sure I know how things're done out here in the big city," he actually did just say those words with a straight-enough face, "but up in Sleepy Hollow, we try to do things right the first time." That comment is afforded directly to the Irishman, before Bill's eyes divert back to Danko. "So, how's about you let me in on exactly what you'n the lollipop guild're gonna do, because I think we've been playing solo for so long that the idea of being a dynamic duo is a little hard on our fragile egos. So, let me be the first man to man up, n'say— " Bill clears his throat and motions towards Danko, "let's kill these fuckers t'gether."
Waving his hands around with a there you have it sort've gesture, Bill lets them fall down at his sides as he looks around from one unamused face to another, eyes falling shut and head shaking with a very what am I going to do with you all expression on his face. "Ten boys ain't a problem, but I'd like to know if I should be sending you ones I'm fond of, or ones that might need a little slap on the wrist."
One end of the chain in one hand, the other in the other and. Douglas has thus made his deadly chain weapon into a jump rope which he skips over merrily three times just to give a demonstration of how nucking futs he is before stopping the momentum of the chain and dangling it over his shoulders. His two well armed friends stay completely still and imposing as Douglas continues to move about.
Bringing himself around David, Douglas has a great time invading personal space, peering at the man closely as if begging him to push him back, or scowl, or yell, or do anything aggressive. Sliding past him, Bill gets a little more space, but the Irishman is not exempt from the close facial examanation. Once he is satisfied with his findings, Douglas wanders over to pace behind Danko, finally settling into a crouch near the man's feet.
Like a dog.
For a few seconds, the trickle and lap of dirty water sieving down through the ruptured ceiling is the only answer Bill gets. Danko's sizing him up again, measuring length and breadth and width — all without a single zipper being unzipped against the increasingly oppressive humidity down here. Lightning bleaches at the colorless burr flattened damp against his skull and glasses bright at his eyes, devoid of the humanity he's supposed to be fighting for.
"The circumstances under which we learned of the location are suspect." There's a pause where he considers his audience, lifeless gaze taking them all in as one before he opts to elaborate with, "It might be a trap."
Bad news for the ten. The question of sending his best boys or ten in need of a spanking is lifted with a transparent lift of grey-touched brows, subdued in its quiet irony while his attention trails carelessly after Dougiepoo's careful inspection of Bill's brutes. There's no order to desist. He has all the courtesy of the stereotypical pitbull owner in the park without a leash — Don't worry. He always does this to new people. It means he likes you.
"Even if it is," back to the conversation after a shorter pause — one of distraction rather than dramatic effect, "someone should be around to spring it. That's who we're after. You do this for me, and you can consider your mutant detecting playdate as good as in the bag."
"I'm not — " The Irishman may have had something to add there, but Bill simply strides in front of his ginger-haired companion with a flourish of one hand dismissively waving awya whatever input he had.
"We've got ourselves a deal, that." Both of Bill's brows rise up, "Ten'a my boys'll be here tomorrow mornin' waitin' for you. I'll scrape the bottom've the barrel for 'em, but I've got a few extra bricks of C4 and enough bags of marbles to make any of 'em worth their salt was two-legged landmines."
Shrugging his shoulders, Bill immediately goes for the most imappropriate thing to say next. "What can I say, them arabs sure know how t'blow themselves up." The grin Bill wears grows some as he slides his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts, toeing the front of one of his flip-flops on the wet ground. "Davie here's the one who taught me about imbedding marbles in the C4, makes the nastiest shrapnel." His brows rise and fall in a playful waggle. "Anything else you might need them carryin' around?"
"Whatever they want to bring and are willing to arm themselves with. I've already made arrangements for transport. My own men," Douglas, Butch, et al, if the glance he casts around is indication, "will see to it that everything goes according to plan, so far as it can with so many unknowns." Less aggressive now that he's secured what he came for, Danko lets the hard line of his shoulders fall a little slack under wet leather. Thunder's more distant this time than it was before, rolling and soft. There's no dust.
"I'll keep you posted on anything we find out."
Marbles and exploding Arabs are all processed with the same not-quite-amused absence of affect Dean's sandles got when he first clapped in here. No comment past a slant at his brows — heavier on right than the left. Everyone here is on the same side. "As for Tanner, she liquefied one of my men a few months ago, but I think that problem may've solved itself for now."
"There's two things I've learned that're all very important in the world we live in today," Bill rather brusquely notes to Danko's comment. "One — nothing's ever solved permanently unleess it's solved with a bullet." He raises a finger into the air with that. "Two, what you can't solve with bullets you can solve with bombs." The corner of his mouth creeps up into a smile, and Bill's second finger pops up with that remark. "When in doubt, make it explode, s'what I say, Danky." Danky, "Now, if everyone's done makin' dramatic entrances in the rain like some bad revue of West Side Story," both of Bill's hands flip up into the air and waggle about as if he were trying to perhaps ward off evil spirits or emulate the manic gesticulations of someone with touretts, "then my boys an' I're gonna' take a look see into this little miss Hunter's naughty secrets."
Raising a brow, Bill pauses halfway turned around and looks back over his shoulder at Danko. "Oh, an' another thing. My little shit-nosed brat of a daughter gave me a call, seems she knows what's what and doesn't approve of daddy." There's a sneer replacing Bill's usual mirth. "If you happen t'crack her head open like a ripe melon and spill the gooey bits on your shoes, I won't hold it against you." His head quirks to the side, "she's a self-righteous little pill."
Douglas' eyes narrow for a moment as he raises to his full height, putting him just above Danko. His eyes follow Douglas as if had just cursed his mother, his children, and his little dog too. A twitch of a glance is sent at Danko as if asking permission for something. But he doesn't wait around for the answer. Douglas is then striding forward, watching Bill and his gestures like a wild dog watching a flailing, wounded cat.
Douglas strides slowly, this way then that and finally Bill stops and turns to make his closing point. That's when Douglas advances, striding powerfully towards Bill. One hand raises up, and thuds against his chest flatly. Coming in close, Douglas practically stares death into the older man's eyes.
"I love West Side Story."
The words are growled before Douglas drops his hand and steps by Bill, motioning with his head the two other men holding the automatic weapons. And with that the three black clad Danko ninjas retreat into the rain.
Danky. All the effort that goes into not looking annoyed causes enough tension in itself to knot at the joints in Danko's jaw, effectively neutralizing the smirk he'd been on his way to working up. Doesn't come near reaching his eyes, and it's gone in the span of a single fidgit, hand to nose on his way to nodding vague assent for whatever Douglas is already striding forward for. Hey girl, do your thing, do your thing, switch~
"He really does," remarked coolly into the breeze still wafting around in the wake of Douglas's exit stage right, Danko sweeps both hands back over the dome of his skull (hard to imagine why no one's ever thought to make an Herbal Essences commercial with him) and steps back to put distance between himself and the three larger bigots he's staked out with. "Bullets are bombs are all well and good if you get in and out without making like a marshmallow in a microwave. Get me something useful on your daughter and I'll see if I can't do a little remodeling around her interior." Paired fingers gesture vaguely up at his own temple, and then he's pacing on past after the others with a louder, "Careful what you say on the phone."
"Mmnh," Bill notes with a chewing motion on his lower lip, even as the Irishman and David both eye him crookedly, "I'll be sure not to — you know — " Bill's hands come together, pressing his thumbs to one another and curling his fingers, making a little heart shape over his chest, "text you any naughty love-letters or nothin' in my spare time." There, both the Irishman and David look away, one of them hiding their face behind a raised palm.
"Cheers."