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| Scene Title | What? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | What?! What. |
| Date | March 11, 2010 |
Once this lot was the home to Eagle Electric, one of the most notable business collapse in Queens was that of Eagle Electric, a major manufacturer based out of Long Island City for decades, comprised of acres of warehouses and manufacturing plants designed to produce electronic components to suit all sorts of needs. In January of 2009, the entire Eagle Electric facility was destroyed in an explosion that decimated hundreds of feet of property. The charred and burned remains of the administrative building's crumbling brick and twisted steel is all that remains. Shrapnel from the destroyed warehouse was scattered across five blocks, though most of it now is relegated to a heap of twisted aluminum and crumbled stone all piled together within a dilapidated chain-link fence.
"Perfection is not an accident."
Those words once stood on the rooftop of the Eagle Electric complex's administrative building. Over a year ago now, that very facility was destroyed in a holocaust of fire that demolished the structure to little more than twisted steel girders and crumbling brick. That very sign, the green and white painted sign that stood the test of generations, now rests crooked inside the hollowed out shell of the administrative building.
Nothing here remains of the old warehouse where Kazimir Volken once commanded the Vanguard, being at the epicenter of Elias DeLuca's explosive finale brought hte structure to pieces of stone no larger than a field mouse. But the remnants of the administrative building are a ghostly skeleton of the past, of the science lab where the Shanti Virus was refined, of the nightmare that Odessa Knutson had to once endure here.
It's an odd place to arrange for a meeting, but Odessa is an odd woman. Here amidst the gutted ribcage of steel girders rusted brown and the broken shell of exterior brick walls, snow has settled in uneven drifts beneath a patchwork sky of cottony clouds. Flurries drift in from above, wind driving snow from perched atop what remains of the roof.
It's here amidst this desolate setting that Odessa is kept company by her memories and the glow of her cell phone, waiting for the arrival of the man who wanted to meet with her; Peter Petrelli.
Odessa is frowning down at her cellphone, actually sitting on the remains of the sign that used to adorn the apex of the building. That bitch Petrelli is late. Dark blue eyes survey the sky briefly, because it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he would arrive from the heavens. Or maybe he won't show at all.
"Accident my ass," the woman mutters, swinging one leg to noisily kick the sign with the heel of a black platform boot. Stupid thing. Stupid building. Stupid Kazimir. Stupid Peter! With a soft sigh, she carefully crawls off the rigging supports from the back of her perch.
Fluffy flakes of snow cling to blonde strands of hair and make heavier lashes already laden with black mascara. Only Odessa Knutson would put on makeup to face down someone she previously considered an enemy. Shades of red to match her outerwear paint her nails and lips, while black eyeshadow peppered heavily with sparkling silver glitter darkens her lids and leaves her face with a light shimmer. Glitter isn't just the herpes of the craft world, its insidious reach extends to cosmetics as well.
The arm of Odessa's coat is pushed up so that the woman can observe the simple and well-worn watch on her wrist rather than check the cell phone she's holding in her hand. A force of habit.
The cold has a way of penetrating bones here in the grave of the Vanguard under that lightless sky. It makes the chill sink in deep, skin crawl and flesh prickle with cold. Perhaps it's the chill that makes Odessa miss the telltale signs that the people coming ot meet her have no connection to the singular man she'd been here to converse with.
Footsteps crunch through snow, carefully tread over broken piles of brick and twisted metal, and stepping with an awkward stumble into a shaft of dirty yellow light from the street lights beyond the facility, the dark brown hair in a long tangle and black overcoat belonging to Company Internal Affairs director Martin Crowley is a long, far cry from Peter Petrelli.
"'Ow are you love? It's been ages." Six years ago, Odessa Knutson first met Martin Crowley in Texas, a stuffy paper-pusher who twisted the panties of every Company Agent he got near, digging up inappropriate conduct within the agency. He was looking into Noah Bennet at the time, perhaps he smelled traitor on him long before anyone else did. Perhaps he was just looking for a promotion.
The footsteps that crunch behind Odessa don't match Martin's in stride. A jerk of her head reveals a taller, slimmer, darker silhouette standing there in lightless gloom. The Haitian looks like some towering onyx statue in this illumination, his bald head shaved clean and soul patch tufted beneath his lower lip. The crisp black suit and wool overcoat he wears do little to accent his gun.
"'Ow's about we sit down an' 'ave ourselves a nice little chat, love?" He has all the charm of John Logan and Ethan Holden combined. It's not much.
The sound of crunching footsteps is not lost on Odessa, who smiles ruefully, rolling her eyes skyward once more. "Peter, you are about as subtle as a stampe-" The sudden realisation that there are two sets of footfalls closing in on her, coupled with the sound of a rather unexpected voice draws the former Company doctor to go rigid as a startled bunny.
The unmangled fingers of one hand are stretched out and extended along with palm and arm toward Crowley, but the sight of who's behind her has her quickly abandoning that tactic. Instead, firearm be damned, Odessa Knutson bolts. Her chunky heeled boots make heavy crunching noises before there's a scraping sound when she finds a patch of ice burried beneath fluffy white. One leg shoots out from under her, leaving the woman lying in a heap in the snow, gasping for air where the wind was forced from her lungs, and grabbing at her over-extended thigh and coaxing the muscles beneath translucent stockings and pale skin to stop screaming.
Lest she begin screaming as well.
"That was clearly a nine-point-five…" Martin croons as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks and slowly starts to make his way over across the snowy and icy floor in far more sensible shoes. "What d'you say, Rene, nine-point-five? She 'ad a perfect dismount right onto 'er pride." There's a goofy chuckle from Martin as he makes his way over to where Odessa lays sprawled out in the snow and clutching one of her legs. Coming to crouch down at her side, forearms on his knees, Martin lifts his brows and peers over the tops of his glasses to her.
"You know Rene 'ere 'as a very unappealing scar thanks t'you…" Martin's stare tracks up from Odessa, watching the Haitian as he moves in, Company-issue pistol still trained on Odessa, lips downturned intoa silent frown, "but y'see, e' knows we're 'ere on business, an'— wouldn't y'just know it— your buddy Len Denton up an' retired t'go an' get married. Ain't that precious?" There's a mocking tone to Martin's voice as he purses his lips and makes kissy face motions. He is the very mature man in charge.
"Which," Martin notes with a swirl of one finger in the air, "brings me 'round about to my point, love. I'd like t'give you your job back."
What.
Yes, she did fall on her pride. And she rather thoroughly crushed it, too. She does manage at least get up to her knees quickly. If she's going to be shot, it's better than being flat on her back on the ice. Salvages some dignity. At the mention of the scar, a familiar sort of look flashes in the woman's features and Odessa is smirking at the Haitian. "Is it really bad? Can I see it?" It's so like her to want to admire her handiwork.
Cobalt blue flashes to Martin's face, close enough to hers now to reach out and touch if she really wanted to, watching his expression as he informs her that Agent Denton grew some good sense and got the hell out. "That explains the repealing of the shoot on sight order he warned me about, I suppose." Her tongue rolls over her teeth briefly before she cants her head to one side. "Congratulations are in order, then. You've been promoted?" The last bit of information, however… That wipes any attempts at pretending she can still be smug right off of her face.
Doctor Knutson leans forward and looks at Martin with one brow hiked to disappear beneath her bangs and the other lowered, her lips parted slightly. It's the quintessential what the fuck face. "You want to what?"
"Actually the shoot on sight order is still in effect. But yes, congratulations are in order, I've got 'is job!" Martin's lips creep up into a smile as both of his hands come clapping together. "'Owever, someone bigger n'worser n'you has showed up, and the Company has been told to back off the investigation, so that leads me 'round the mulberry bush to agents I either want to see face down in a ditch or people outside of the organization proper. So basically, I'm offerin' you the badge back, without the badge."
Standing up straight, Martin dusts some snow off of his shoulder, glancing up to the broken ceiling. "As luck would 'ave it a little bird sent your cell phone number across my desk, tol' me where you were livin'. Clearly you ain't made friends with ol' ex-agent Petrelli these last few years 'ave you?"
Glancing to Rene, Martin breathes in deeply and rests his hands on his hips. "Sylar's back in town, cuttin people's 'eads open and scoopin' out the goodies. I want you t'work with an agent I've put on the case, discretely, so's that you can 'elp track 'im down an' put a bullet in 'is 'ead or whatever it takes. I trade his life, for yours, and you can come back to us. Cage-free."
Lifting both brows, Martin Crowley purses his lips and looks pointedly smug. "Whot d'you say, love?"
"You're lying!"
Odessa goes falling back heavily, her weight falling onto the backs of her calves as she stares incredulously at Martin. "Sylar's dead," she tells him. "He was- I-" Wide eyes fill with tears and the blonde lowers her head quickly to obscure the emotion with the curtain her hair makes as it spills forward. This is the second time she's been confronted by an enemy and informed a man she loved and thought she had lost is still alive.
Ain't that a kick in the head?
"What if I say no?" After an audible swallow and rubbing the pad of her thumb under her eyes to keep makeup from running down her face in rivulets of tears, she lifts her gaze again. Her expression is wounded, and uncertain.
"Maybe," Martin admits with a tilt of his head to the side, "maybe m'not right, maybe this is a copycat killer like they say. But you know me, you know 'ow I latch on to somethin'. Sylar's that somethin', an' you're gonna' 'elp prove it." There's a tick of Martin's head to the side, a quirk of one brow and a look towards Rene, who reminds Odessa that there is a gun pointed to her head with a gentle waggle of its barrel. "You could say no, but you're not really th' kind t'go an' sacrifice yourself for nothin', are you? You wanna know just as badly as I do that Sylar's around, an' you wanna' know just as badly as I do that— well— maybe you don't want 'im dead as bad as I do."
Grinning plesantly, Martin dusts off his hands and rests them on his hips again. "Say no, maybe you'll find out if Rene 'ere wants t'shoot you or if this is all a bluff." Rene offers a quick look to Martin that seems a bit puzzled by the assistant-director's words. "Or, you could say yes, 'elp kill the man you idolize, an' save yerself an' maybe not get yer 'ead sliced open by 'im."
Martin shrugs, slowly, looking over to Rene, "I dunno chap, that seems like a 'ard choice, don' it?"
"And what if it isn't Sylar?" Odessa's eyes can't quite stay on Crowley anymore. Instead, they're eying the barrel of the gun. And perhaps more importantly, the finger on the trigger. The new assistant director is only afforded brief flickers of glances. "So what then? I say no and you just kill me here and take that as a feather in your cap? Believe me, nobody's going to give you any credit." The gears in her head turn, stalling for time to make a decision, to get out of this one way or another. Slowly and carefully, she rises to her feet again.
He's a good half foot taller than her, but the height difference doesn't seem to perturb her. Odessa's lips twist into a defiant smile. This kind of attitude is how she ended up with four broken fingers. "You're one of them," she reminds Martin, only her definition of us and them is assuredly flip-flopped from his own. "You need one of us to get anything done. That must be terrible for you." Slender fingers reach out to trace over the man's jacket lightly. "Say I do this for you," she muses, "and you're wrong, it isn't Sylar. What happens to our deal then?"
"Things are changin' in the Company, Odessa darlin'. But you know, maybe I can dangle somethin' in front've you that you might 'preciate more'n your job an' your life?" Martin's eyes flick from Odessa to the Haitian and back again. "Sylar or no', 'ooever is doing the killings needs t'be put down an' the government wants us off the case, which means I want in. This ain't about credit, or promotions, this is a bloody personal vendetta an' I'm willin' t'make it extremely personal if it comes down to it, so 'ow about I level with you, Odessa."
Martin's brows furrow, and the assistant-director leans forward, hand son his hips like a reproachful father, staring down at Odessa squarely. "You do this for me, and I'll tell you where you come from."
For the second time this evening, Martin Crowley manages to wipe away the smugness from Odessa's face and replace it with disbelief. Her fingers halt their quest to trace circles, spirals, and hearts over the taller man's chest. "You know where I come from?" she asks desperately, searching his face with wide and wild eyes for any sign of a lie.
Her fingers close around fabric and pull him an inch or two closer. "Don't lie to me about this. I'll do this in exchange for a chance at a legal identity, but don't lie to me about this. Don't be so cruel," Odessa begs of him. "You really have access to that? You know?"
"Maybe you've got a knock on your 'ead and forgot 'oo I am? Crowley, Martin Crowley. Company Internal Affairs." One dark brow raises, as if he's introducing himself as James Bond. "If I want t'know something, I do, it's 'ow my job works. Bein' higher up on the food chain jus' means that I'm a twee more likely t'know somethin' now than a'was before." Cracking a smile, Crowley tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, brow kicked up still in cocksure quality.
It's only with a shrug of his shoulders that he adds, "Or we could just shoot you now an' save us the trouble of your eventual stinging betrayal the moment you 'ave exactly what it is you want." Martin kicks his brows up, angles his head towards the Haitian and downturns his lips into a frown as if to say how's that sound, buddy?
Odessa scours the lines of Martin Crowley's face for a long moment, trying to decide if he's lying to her or not. Internal Affairs knows things, sure, but can he really find out about her origins so quickly? Does he already know? Her fingers loosen their grip before falling back entirely, and she takes first one step away, then a second.
Far enough to decide if she's about to get shot or not. "You give me what I want, and you give me my freedom, and that betrayal you're worried about may not come," she seeks to assure them both. But when her eyes fall on the Haitian, there's a silent pleading there. She looks more vulnerable than most people within the Company have ever seen the woman - and to be fair, she is more vulnerable than she generally is around most people within the Company. Slowly, she slides her attention back to Crowley and nods once shakily.
"I'll do it."