What You Don't Know


deckard_icon.gif delia_icon.gif ryans2_icon.gif

Scene Title What You Don't Know
Synopsis Ryans drops a bombshell on Deckard and Delia. He's going into space and he invited Deckard along for shenanigans and not Delia. Poor Delia!
Date October 02, 2010

Gun Hill

It's well after 5pm at Gun Hill, the windows of the apartment building glow orange with the setting sun. There is the sounds of people working on fixing their suppers, it filters through the stairwell of the building itself. This is where Benjamin Ryans can be found, perched on the stairs, just above a stretched square of light that falls from the window of the apartment buildings door.

Shoulders are hunched forward, so that his elbows can rest on his knees. Ryans hands wrapped loosely around a mug scrounged up from somewhere. Penguins marching across the surface. Resting between his feet is a bottle of Jack Daniels, the black label distinct.

Alert blue eyes are focused on the the stairs that lead down into the clinic, narrowed in thought, as the mug is lifted for a sip of the whiskey within. He's been avoiding his little girl since the meeting at the park, the news he has will not go over well. And he knows it, evident by the heavy sigh that escapes that large nose of his. It's part of the reason he has a drink in hand… he's not looking forward to this.

Sundown marks the rise of things that dwell in the spaces between buildings and beneath dumpsters. Old wrappers sizzle and rattle under the passage of skittering claws and insects grown fat in the months since winter was finally over.

And in an alley across the street, thickening shadow is host to a flicker and shift of movement — two rings of chilly blue sketched like eyeshine out've the dark. Too high off the ground to be a cat or even a dog; too wide-spaced to pass for any bird short've a recently escaped emu.

Whatever it is, it's watching Ryans. It's also familiar.

Coming down the sidewalk toward the building, a young woman with curly red hair makes her way into the building, only to find her father sitting just inside. "Uhm… Dad.." Her blue eyes drift down to the bottle beside him and Delia's eyebrows peak as high up as they can manage. "Dooooooo… you think you should be … uhm…" Looking around quickly, she spots one of the doors on the lower floor slightly ajar. One of the empty apartments and she uses the excuse. "Just relaxing a bit after fixing one of the places up, huh?"
Avoiding things, it's what Ryanses do best. Placing her hands into the seams of her pockets, she hooks her thumbs on the outside. Turning, she goes to close the door but catches the two chilly pinpoints across the street. She shivers lightly and purses her lips, not being able to help staring across at them.

When the door opens, Ryans' attention shifts to it and the very person he's waiting for. Swallowing his current sip, there is a slow nod of his head. "Something like that." His voice rough as the liquid burns it's way down his throat. "Was waiting for you, actually — " There is a beat, before — " We need to talk."

Never the thing she wants to hear. It usually doesn't mean good things.

"And tell Deckard to quit staring and to get in here." Yes, Ryans managed to catch a glimpse of those eyes across the street. The old man knows all and sees all. "I might as well talk to you both." There is a resigned way to his words. He motions out the door with his mug, "He's across the street. Probably looking straight through your clothes." Ryans observes in a dead pan matter, which means he's probably got a bit of Whiskey in his bloodstream already.


Flint's eyes shutter at the motion of mug to door — dark and then light again over an uneasy bristle at his shoulders. He can see far enough to identify the more delicate trace of Delia's skeleton near her father's, but he can't hear much beyond the drift of his name. And while there may be lip readers in the world, trying to translate the oddly rhythmic dance of their mandibles is another story.

So he stays put. Stray dog out on the porch.

Not wanting to call out to him, the man is in hiding after all, Delia waves one of her arms in a beckoning motion. It's like trying to coax a feral cat toward a tin of food and in many ways Mister Deckard is like a feral animal. They're both skittish, seemingly dangerous, but once they've grown used to you there's generally a tentative understanding.

Glancing both ways, the redhead ventures out onto the steps and glances both ways before jogging across the street toward him. Once she's close enough for Flint to hear, she slows but doesn't stop. "Mister Deckard, come inside, it's not safe to hang around out here. You never know who might come around." Whether she believed her father about him looking through her clothing or not, she's not letting it bother her right now. Stretching out one hand, she offers it to the man with a smile. "Come on, dad's got a bottle of Jack Daniels and he's not going to finish it alone. Since I'm not allowed to have any, you're going to need to share it."

At the mention of the Jack, Ryans holds up the bottle within view of the other man, before he goes about working to refill that coffee mug. He's gonna need extra he thinks.

Finally, out of sheer impatience, Ryans voice lifts enough to shout past his daughter — another sign that the old man has had a bit to drink. "Get your ass in here, Flint." Yeah… he's had a bit. Ben works carefully to pour himself that refill of his drink, setting the still open bottle down again.

The entire rolodex of Deckard's posse is comprised of tentative understandings pockmarked by the sorts of episodes that would rightfully result in the average feral animal being humanely destroyed.

But none of his keepers so far have had the heart.

So here he is, watching Delia skirt up on him without giving any ground even if he kind've looks like he wants to with his head ducked and his shoulders stiff. Not the sort of entity loving fathers send their daughters out to play pattycake with in dark alleys. RYANS.

Delia's offered hand measured and dismissed, Flint's juuust starting to let his stare drift into a sketchy dip when Benjamin's voice cuts sharp past the overlarge jut of his ears. Compliance is (near) immediate; he shifts his weight from one boot to the other and finally nods. Acceptance and a leery gesture for Delia to lead the way. He's coming.

Turning back toward the building, Delia leads the way by only a few feet. Once again, she glances in both directions before crossing the street in a slow jog that's only made quicker by the threat of a passing vehicle. In the end, it turns in a different direction and allows the young woman and her father's friend the comfort of entering the building unseen.

Her father wanted to talk, but as usual Delia's in no hurry to start. What she does is deflect and offer Flint up as the sacrificial lamb instead of facing whatever it is that's bothering him. "Here you go, daddy-o," the words are said with a practiced rhythm, like she's been using the same line for years. "If you don't need me anymore, I'm going to go change. There's this thing I wanted to go to later… I might ask Jaiden to take me."

"Ah." The sound sharp, forceful and commanding. In that one sound is an order to 'Stay right where you are, young lady.'

Benjamin's face is unreadable again, if one is seeing the flesh that encases the bones of his head, otherwise… the view is no different. His tone is unreadable tho. "You're lucky," The older man says gruffly, voice rumbling slightly as he addresses the other man, that sharp gaze on Deckard. "I should break your jaw for messing with my oldest." That unreadable gaze shifts to his youngest, one of his feet sliding to the next step, as he reaches to pick up the bottle. "Should…" He repeats, but instead offers the bottle to his former teammate.

"There is going to be enough crap to deal with, when I get done saying what I need too." The words blandly spoken, though a corner of his mouth tips up in the first hint of something. Almost looks like amusement. "So.. sit, drink, Flint, cause it's damn good to see your alright. Lia, you're going to want to sit down for this as well."


Flint closes the door behind them both, undead stare cloaked somewhat by better light when he turns dimly after Delia's attempt to push him forth to slaughter only to be judo-chopped back into line.

Scruffily halfass in a black field jacket that's almost too light for the weather and a worn out pair of jeans, he has to do some thinking to recall what messing with his oldest might have entailed. It takes more than a minute to sort through grimy old memory before some gear or another rusts into the right sprocket and he turns his head enough to knit his brows a little reproachfully at Delia nearby. Suspicion of tattling is evidently strong.

But by then, the whiskey's already gripped by the neck in his right hand and Ryans has changed the subject so that the folded knife that's found its way into his left hand stays that way. Folded. That is.

It almost looks like a cell phone when Flint eases it back into his pocket and swirls the bottle. "Technically," he says, not drinking or sitting, "she messed with me."

The glance that's returned to Flint is something of a guilty one followed by the slight shrug of her shoulders, something of a non-verbal apology. Hanging her head down, Delia jams her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and lets loose a long breath of air. She can't exactly argue with the man's recollection of events, so when she looks up to meet her father's eyes there's another shrug and a slight nod to say 'he's right'.

"Uhm, is it going to be long, Dad? Because… uhm…" She's visibly uncomfortable, the quickness of her breath and the twitch of her lips paint that picture as clear as a vibrant Van Gogh. It's the drink, the one he's sharing with his friend that makes him too blunt for her comfort. A pleading look is passed toward Flint, she's half his age, he should be able to help.

There is a thoughtfulness at Deckard's words, as Ryans ponders them, even with a slightly fuzzy brain. "Yeah… well… point. Hands off tho.'" Ryans states firmly, giving him a pointed look, before looking at Delia and lips press into a thin line.

How should he start this whole conversation? With a whole lot of flowery words about how he loves her and all that? Talk about how he never meant to get her into all this. Blah blah, yada yada. No… Flint is there. That would just look bad. So after a moment of consideration and a bolstering of his courage, he settles for —

"I'm leaving for China soon with some people, gotta go steal a space shuttle." Then Ryans eyes shift over to Flint as he asks right on the tail end of that little bombshell, "Want to go?" Okay, that wasn't so bad — in his head at least. "Might be fun to shoot at the Chinese military." He gives Deckard a matter of fact look, before taking a swig of Whiskey from his mug.

"No hands," Deckard agrees without really paying attention, probably too mildly. Also probably with the insinuation that there are things he can do without using his hands. He's still looking at Delia when he says so, which may or may not be creepy, even if the focus might've been because he passes her the bottle of Jack once he's taken a sturdy pull for himself. His version of an assist.

He looks back to Ryans after that, baffled even through the goshawk intensity of his glare while he backtracks over what he just heard. China. Space shuttle. Military.

Given that it's (remotely?) possible that this string of nouns should link to some relevant knowledge shored up somewhere in the brackish waters of his brain, he again has to pause and give the matter some concentrated thought before he ventures forth with an earnest, "…What?"

Oh, it's creepy.

Whatever Lucille saw in the older man isn't what Delia does. Then again, Lucille has always been a little more adventurous in the post office department than her younger sister. It's probably why the redhead is the little more cautious of the two. In Flint's case it might be with good reason. Reaching out, she accepts the bottle, fully intending on passing it on to her father.

Still, there's something about the man that draws a gut instinct from the youngest of Benjamin's daughters. Not fear or disgust, not lust or aggression; like a wounded puppy or a stray kitten, he pulls out her more nurturing side. Until the invitation from her father that's not quite understood, by either of them.

The expression on Delia's face is lost somewhere between hurt, heartbreak, confusion, and honest to goodness despair. "…What?" She echoes staring at her father, stunned. Without thought, she tips the bottle to her lips and takes a long swig.

Now her entire countenance changes to the look that she should have gotten while Flint was staring at her while making the agreement with Ben. Her face screws up like she's about to hurl back the amber liquid and a violent tremor that starts somewhere near where the heat of the liquor died, shudders all the way up her spinal chord until it comes out of her mouth in a "bleeeehhhhh…"

"Got your attention now, don't I?" Ryans says with a corner of his mouth pulling up into a humorless smile, watching his daughters reaction to the whiskey. "Rebel has devised a plan to hijack a space shuttle, to go up and take down one of the Company's satellites." There is a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping and his head shaking. "And I know how crazy that sounds.

"It's the truth, I've seen a prophetic painting about it. One of several I helped smuggle out of Russia." That country should sound familiar to Delia at least. His head tips down, looking at his vague reflection in his mug. "Flint…" He addressed his fellow fugitive. "…we need more people on the ground to keep the Chinese Government away from the shuttle while a small group of us with Rebel's help take steal the shuttle. I'd like you along, if possible." A single finger taps lightly on the edge of the edge of the mug.

"There is a satellite up there that tracks the movements of evolved via a marker." Ryans points at a spot near his own neck, but of course his own skin is devoid of it, so he points to Deckard. "He should have one. Standard for all evolved Company agents." If Flint is so inclined to show and tell, which Ryans doubts. "Right now the Institute can't get control of it, but they are very close to doing so.

"Rebel says that if the Institute gets their hands on the programming that's in that satellite, anyone that is evolved is screwed, cause they can make it pinpoint accurate. So " Ryans takes a deep drink from his mug, making a bit of a face after it, " we're going up there to destroy it."

Uneasy silence stretches on Deckard's end for longer than is probably reassuring even once Delia's gagged and Ryans has finished. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't offer up the tick of his own black mark and his collar is flipped too high for either of them to even hope to get a glimpse. If there's anything to be read on his long face at all, it's most likely grizzled resentment again — he doesn't like being reminded that he has it.

Or the fact that he has it.

The Institute, The Institute, The Institute. It's probably relevant that his housemate and sex times partner is employed by the same group, but not so relevant that he's willing to say it might be. Not when he's busy trying to calculate whether or not he has to ask her for permission first. Also whether or not he should. Chilly stare redirected aside onto nothing, Deckard reaches for the whiskey again, operating off the likely assumption that Delia is finished with it.

Without argument, the bottle is passed back to Flint. She doesn't even look at him, preferring to stare at her father incredulously as he relates his story. "So— Why can't I go? Why are you asking Mister Deckard and not me?" The answer she knows she's going to receive will have something to do with relevant experience and her lack of it.

Her eyebrows furrow together quite sharply and her lips downturn like she's about to have a violent outburst. Taking a deep breath, the redhead purses her lips together to hide the frown and she shakes her head. "No. No… You're totally grounded. You're too old for this and I'm not going to lose the very last member of my family because you decided that you can't just let someone else do the job." It's been so long without contact from her sister, she's practically given her up for dead.

The look that Ryans has, clearly says he was expecting this sort of reaction. He listens her complaint with about has much enthusiasm as a cat does for water, but his expression does not change. "Because, Delia… you are not trained for this. You can not dream these people to death. We are going up against the Chinese military, your better off here." The mug is motioned in the direction of the clinic. "Doing what you do best."

There is that stubborn set to Ben's jaw, his back straightening a bit as he speaks, all authority there. Despite having been drinking, they man can still look the part when he needs too. "I am not arguing with you about my part in this, Delia Marie." And that is final. "I'm for once letting you know not only where I'm going, but why… "

The Ryans patriarch has set his heels and drawn the line in the sand.

A line which — Deckard moves carefully to sidestep over, sort've past Ryans deeper into the hall towards an open door. Whiskey in tow.

In possibly one of the most responsible acts of his fine career, he's decided all present (except for him) have had enough.

He never actually answered in the affirmative as to whether or not he's in, but the look that he has is that of one who is ill-equipped to do anything but stand awkwardly around in the middle of some kind of weird family disagreement involving love and loss and all that uncomfortable stuff.

More subtle than he has a right to be for factors of sheer size and unmistakeable countenance, he glances back once before slinking shoulder-first to nudge the door open enough for him to slink out of sight.

Betrayed, that's how Delia is looking at her father. Her long and silent stare is broken only after Flint's retreated into Ben's apartment. "You don't even know what I can do," she says quietly. The warning has a rather ominous quality but she doesn't explain any further.

Leaving it up to his imagination, she brushes past him and begins climbing the stairs to her apartment. She has places to go, people to see, and smut books to read.

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