Participants:
Also Featuring:
| Scene Title | Who Knew? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | If someone said three years from now, you'd be long gone… |
| Date | September 15, 2010 |
Various
"Wait! I remember now!" she exclaims rather suddenly, leaning up and over the counter. "My boss had a baseball card up here on the counter yesterday! Augusto somethin'-or-other, right?" She has a wide grin on her face, and an enthusiastic tone in her voice. "Must be worth somethin' nice, that card."
The heavy clomp of his boots reverberates through the store as Edgar follows the young woman to the sales counter and immediately spots the card on the sill behind her. Slowly, he lifts one of his hands from his pocket and points. "You mean tha' one? Can I see i'?" He seems a little interested, there's a red tinge to the tops of his ears as he looks past Quinn to the card. By the time the young woman turns around to look where he's pointing, the card is gone.
"I s'pose I do look somethin' like 'im, eh?" The carnie's lips twist into a sort of sad half smile as he turns it over his his hand, examining the stats and then staring at the man in the white uniform. "I don' think it's worth anythin' though. It's only minor leagues, Yank ball.." he lets out a small puff of a laugh.
Upstairs in the loft, the sound of boots continues to vibrate, drawing the boss-lady's attention with a familiar pang tugging at her heart strings. Memory doesn't die easily. Lydia had spent the last few hours reorganizing this space, and repacking all of her things to follow Jaiden's advice: move into the basement. Not that there's much to pack. Clothes. Candles. The oil lamps Samuel had brought her. All of these things needed to be moved, but that sound echoes in her mind and beckons her to take a moment to breathe.
The floorboards creak below her as she moves across the room to burn some lavender oil. It's soothing, sending wafts of calm downstairs. To Lydia, this is a familiar smell; her favourite, even in her carnie days when she'd allowed it to fill her trailer.
You took my hand, you showed me how
You promised me you'd be around
Uh huh, that's right
Quinn does indeed turn to wear he's looking, and seeing it gone, she spins back around, looking rather confused. "I- okay…" Her head tilts, peering quizzically at who she believes is this Augusto. "I don't really don't know much about baseball t' be honest. So minor league cards aren't worth that much? That's a shame." Quinn shrugs, continuing to ring up the book. "Maybe she's a fan?" Quinn asserts with a grin. "She's had it out the last few days. Left it out a few times now."
"Minor leagues ain't e'en worth the cardboard they's printed on." The man says as he grabs a marker and scribbles a signature across the front of the small bit. Augusto Hernandez. Lifting his head, he takes a deep breath and holds it for a minute, taking in the faint scent of lavender that permeates the air. A rather depressing countenance comes over him and as he furrows his eyebrows, he gulps audibly.
"Listen, ehm… I'm jes' goin'teh pay fer the book." His voice sounds rough and raspy instead of the smooth it was only moments before. Plucking a few bills from his pocket, he tosses them onto the counter and nods to the young woman with a rather sad smile. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Tell yer boss she's got a lovely shop, eh?"
The chime on the door jingles once and when Quinn looks out the window, not a trace of the man can be seen.
Quinn is left blinking as she takes back the card and the money for the book. "No worries. Sorry, I didn't mean t', like… annoy you or anythin'. I was just a little surprised is all!" But before she's even done talking, "Augusto" is already out the door and totally gone, causing Quinn's brow to furrow. "How weird," she comments to her self, leaning against the counter. "Hope I didn't, like… offend him or anythin'." The card is placed gingerly down on the counter, and with a sigh, Quinn returns to her cleaning and organizational tasks behind the counter.
I took your words and I believed
In everything you said to me
Yeah huh, that's right
The stairs creak with complaint as the painted lady comes down the narrow path towards the counter. She steps over the privacy rope, quite the feat for a woman in a long skirt before Lydia's shuffles bring her to the counter — in front of it thanks to Quinn's placement. Her eyes glance about the store for the original source of the noise, but seeing nothing, her attention is quickly redirected back to Quinn and the counter itself. Her gaze turns downward to the card.
It's signed.
Wordlessly, she opens her mouth to speak, only to have words fail her, the butterflies in her stomach growing, "… Who…?"
When Lydia starts down the stairs, Quinn perks back up from behind the counter, a smile across her face. She doesn't say anything at first, at least not until Lydia poses her question. Standing back straight again and brushing off her skirt, Quinn eyes the card, and then Lydia. "Oh shit. I totally forgot you were 'ere, otherwise I would have come an' gotten you," she remarks apologetically, an expression on her face to match. She motions to the card, expression more curious. "You a fan a' this guy? Dunno if it was actually him, but someone who was a total ringer for 'im was just here." Now she feels kind of bad. Oops.
A single hand is brought to her chest; that pang of familiarity changes to a deep ache in Lydia's chest. Moments pass before she's gasping for breath, somehow in the knowledge that he was here, she'd forgotten to breathe; an odd disappointment for a mere fan, but one that Lydia can't hide thanks to it being her second regarding the ball player in just a week. Her free hand slides the card from the counter in one fluid motion as her eyes blink back a hot layer of tears threatening to fall at any moment. Clamping her eyes shut, she sniffs, nods, and then turns on her heel only to retreat back upstairs, leaving Quinn alone in the silence.
If someone said three years from now
You'd be long gone
I'd stand up and punch them out
'Cause they're all wrong
~
I know better
'Cause you said forever
And ever, who knew?
"How intent are you on doing something about it though? You like the single vigilante life? Or do you support those people I've seen in the news lately? That Messiah group?" she asks, leaning back and drawing one leg up beneath her, making it easier to face him directly.
Melissa's questions have Edgar frowning a little and he looks away from her. There's a pang of guilt and pain that's clearly visible in his expression that clears before he turns back to face her. "I use'teh be a member of a carnival, a fam'ly. I ain't been this alone my entire life an' I ain't ashamed teh say I don' like i'."
There's a shrug of his thick shoulders as he begins to answer her next line of questioning. "I don' much pay attention to politics an' the news. 'Til Moab, I didn' care abou' the outside world at all. All tha' ever mattered was me fam'ly. If Messiah is workin' agains' the people who stole everythin' away from me, then they've go' my support." Whether it's simply words or actual action that would carry through, Edgar's never done much to stick his neck out since the mass release from the prison.
A small, sad smile curves Melissa's lips and she nods. "Yeah, being alone sucks a big one," she agrees. "Would you like to be a part of a family again? Not the one you knew, but another one? One that does its best to kick the government where it hurts? It involves violence against Homeland Security agents, occasional beach parties and a place to hide out if you ever need it." Because really, who can dress like that and have a regular place to stay?
"And I can personally vouch for all of those. It's good people, doing good work." Okay, so that good work involves explosions and murder, but the end justifies the means, right?
Remember when we were such fools
And so convinced and just too cool
Oh no, no no
Outside the window, the world is a hub of anonymous strangers in their various activities, even when inside there’s some semblance of rebuilding, peace, and perhaps family. It’s among the anonymous that sometimes the familiar comes to pass, often when least expected. The sunlight catches long golden tresses of hair, well brushed, well maintained. It’s her most identifiable feature, especially from the distance as she keeps her head down. There are some places she knows better than to draw attention, Staten Island is one of them.
Her steps are evenly weighted, slow, methodical, even amid the presumed danger to herself or her person. Yet something about her mystery seems to keep people at bay, like they don’t quite know what she’s made of or why she’d be here. Her mid-calf white dress, complete with ruffles, is beautifully backlit thanks to the sunbeams, giving her the illusion of being an imperfect angel, flawed in her own existence and timing. Her shawl — her favourite, the only one that made out of her home so long ago, generally reserved for the tarot cards she uses in the shop — is tugged tightly over her shoulders, almost sinking into it with each well time, well placed step, intentional and weighty with each motion.
"Are you askin' me teh join Messiah, Melissa? Are you a part of 'em?" Something in the way he asks and the narrow eyed expression on his face hints that he doesn't quite believe it. After all, someone as dainty as the woman across from him doesn't look like she's got enough mass to her to hurt a fly. Then again, if she was incarcerated in Moab, she'd have to be dangerous in some respect.
His gaze lingers on her for a long while as he contemplates the matter. Without visibly moving, he's suddenly looking out the window and raising himself from the couch an inch or two. The bright expression on his features holds a bit of hope that she's never seen before but then it falls away. He sits himself back down and frowns deeply, his eyes have a hardness and his jaw is tense. "Yeah, I'd like to do i'. I want to stop i' all. Even if i' kills me."
That disbelief has Melissa laughing softly. "Yeah, I am. Should I show you my scars to prove it?" Though only one of them was actually received on Messiah business. Then she sobers and nods. "Well, we do our best to cover each other's backs so we don't die on the job. It pisses me off when we lose someone. Anyone. I'd even protect the biggest jackass of the group."
I wish I could touch you again
I wish I could still call you a friend
I'd give anything
Hesitantly Mel lifts a hand to settle it on Edgar's shoulder lightly. "I understand, Edgar. I do. Moab and the government cost me a lot too. We may not be able to bring back the things either of us have lost, but we can make them pay. We can keep others from losing as we have. We can keep the people we care about safe," she says softly.
The breeze outside causes a slight stir in the world, evidence that fall has descended on New York. And with that breeze, the shawl slips from the sandy haired woman's shoulders. The slipping shawl reveals two coppery coloured shoulders, lined with a vineyard pattern in forest green and accented in a light pink. Further evidence of ink sneaks underneath the shawl where she manages to keep it close to her body like it could be her most precious possession. A single glance is given over her shoulder, providing a profile of her chiseled greek nose and dark eyelashes.
A glance from a gentleman not far behind her, beckons her to tug the shawl tighter to her body once again, sinking into the little warmth and protection it will yield. Again her face turns to the ground, allowing her long hair to make her just one of the anonymous, blending with all others. Knowing she's already caught more attention than she cares to, her pace increases, each step punctuated as she rounds a corner.
Melissa's hand slides off his shoulder as Edgar stands from his seat and zips to the other side of the room. With the dark blur and the rush of wind in his wake, it shouldn't be a mystery to her anymore what his ability is. He's looking out the window, peering at something quite intently down the road but his attention is turned to Melissa for a brief enough moment that he nods.
"I'll do i', I'll join up if yer askin'." Finally, he tears his eyes off the outside world and lowers his chin to look back at her. "If only to stop some'un else from losin' wha' they 'as."
When someone said count your blessings now
For they're long gone
I guess I just didn't know how
I was all wrong
~
But they knew better
Still you said forever and ever
Who knew? Yeah yeah
The revelations of the touch are hardly displayed on the empath's features, punctuated by nothing more than a single raise of her eyebrow. Her lips press together contemplatively, giving heavy consideration before attempting to speak. "Passion is everything in life. Finding your passion — " she begins only to be interrupted by the chime of the bell, and random opening of the door. Curiously, she glances towards it, but there's nothing to be seen.
Quickly enough, Lydia finishes her though, especially as no one is actually here to interrupt, " — it's everything in life. If you're a rocker chick at heart, that's who you are, even if you stopped playing, that wouldn't change. Who we are is simply that. Who we are."
And what does that make Lydia?
Not a business owner. Or an employer.
"We all need outlets. Some provide more release than others." It's a simple enough statement left to hang in the air.
I'll keep you locked in my head
Until we meet again
Edgar's speed keeps him on the surface of the river between Queens and Roosevelt Island. Running on top of the water puts him something akin to a water beetle or high speed Jesus. Most likely the former. As he blurs through the streets of the isolated island town, he passes by the bookstore he visited a few days ago. The door mustn't have been closed because in his wake, the door swings open, slamming against the opposite wall.
While normally, he would have stopped and offered an apology, he's on a mission and this is timed. Should he be caught there, he would definitely be incarcerated again. This is something he wants desperately to avoid.
There's a brief glance to the door when it chimes, then brown eyes resettle on the proprietress. With the hand falling back to her side, contact needed to take such readings broken, Cat speaks with quietened voice. "True enough," she allows. Expounding on desires for justice and restoration, the weight of things known and secrets kept, is eschewed. "You give the impression of being a philosopher as well as bookstore owner, Lydia."
Gale,
I hope this message finds you well. Found a job right in the place you told me to look, found some kindred spirits too. I owe you. If you're ever out that way, you can leave a message for me at the Pelican.
Until we meet again, I hope it's soon.
David
There's a small shake of her head at the comment while the painted lady's gaze remains focused on Cat. "I'm more gypsy than philosopher," Lydia admits openly. "Someone dear to me taught me to introspect and the mysteries of life…" there's yet another moment of distraction as her gaze flits to the window again. Her eyes narrow to bring the outside into focus, furrowing her eyebrows and tightening her jaw. She could've sworn she saw something, but now, there's nothing there. Gaping a moment she regains her thought, "… the mysteries are what we make them to be. We can over-analyze our lives or live in what we have… or regret what we've done…" the last is said as an afterthought, more telling than the rest.
Until we, until we meet again
And I won't forget you my friend
What happened?
Shooting back through the streets in a windy haze, there's a dark streak left in his wake as he passes by the shop again. He allows himself only enough of a glimpse to see that someone has closed the door. Satisfied, he forges on, destined once again for the safety of his own corner of the city.
Somewhere along the trip past, the sign advertising tarot readings embeds itself in his memory. Were it not such a dangerous place to be, he might have stopped in again. Possibly, he would have gotten a tarot reading and met the person who was such a fan of Augusto Hernandez.
The woman is studied for some moments in silence, Cat's mind adding Romany to a list of languages she might choose to teach herself someday. That silence remains unbroken as she surveys the books marked as reserved behind the counter, until she opts to inquire about them. "These are special orders for your customers yet to be claimed, or a private collection of favorites?"
Lips twitch into an almost relaxed smile. "Private collection. Most the choices of the last owner; a few of my own. Some of them for people I know more than myself… or they remind me of lives passed. Others are just older. Beautiful." She shrugs. "There's something wonderful about an old book; imagining who else touched it and left their own mark on it. Who read it and was influenced by it. How it shaped who they were…" She shrugs again. "I have a lot of quiet time to think," palms open to the empty store. "Maybe too much time."
"Memories on paper," Cat muses, "perfectly preserved in the print and the binding, perhaps even in the scent of them." Her face permits something of a wistful expression to form as Lydia speaks of time on her hands, the spoken response matches that.
"Staying busy brings a peace in itself, the forming of new memories and avoidance of dwelling on those existing prior."
She turns away then, moving to the shelves on her side of the counter and exploring at a calm pace.
"Maybe that's all we can hope for: Temporary release from them," for the first time her voice edges on depression, a deep-set sadness generally cast aside for everyone's benefit. Lydia places her palms flat on the counter as Cat steps away. She reaches into her pocket and returns the baseball card to the counter before gently closing her eyes and sucking in a smooth calming breath.
Moisture forms along her eyes, but only momentarily before she blinks it back from whence it came. She opens a single drawer in the counter, and slides the card into it, making the choice not to physically carry it around anymore, even if it's here.
If someone said three years from now
You'd be long gone
I'd stand up and punch them out
'Cause they're all wrong
There's a a blur and a whirl of wind that whips up a few loose fliers before the door makes its own pale imitation of that single shot… clap… clap…
BAM!!
Edgar stands completely still in front of Jospeh, cradling a dead child in his arms. The red stain on her little costume blooms like a morbid rose, spreading out over her chest and from the back, drips down to the floor. "Wh-what have you done? Joseph… What have yeh done…"
Both of the empaths in the room can likely feel the anguish tearing through the speedster. Likely the first time since they've known him, a sparkle of tears can be seen gathering in the corners of his eyes. "You bloody bastard…" he croaks in a whisper, turning to lay the child gently on Joseph's bed. "What've y'done…"
When she's laid to rest, his arms slide from beneath her, stained with crimson streaks. Then he's in front of Lydia, his strong hands gripping her around the tops of her arms. "Stay… wait for me… I'm goin' teh take care of this…" Still, he manages only a whisper.
Leaning down a fraction of an inch, it almost seems as though he's about to kiss her before the door slams again. He's gone.
And that last kiss I'll cherish
Until we meet again
And time makes it harder
I wish I could remember
"She said she was working at a tattoo parlor — hold on, let me think," Daphne says, shifting a little to extricate herself from his grip. "It was something Ink — I mean, if you look up tattoo parlors in New York, how many can there be?"
That gives her an idea, and she pulls out that very useful cell phone once more, thumb scrolling around before typing in the keywords that will bring the pertinent information up on the device's browser.
"Tattoo parlor… you mean.." Whatever hold he had on the other speedster has been shrugged off, leaving his arms still oup in the air. He's too stunned to lower them until he hears the words tattoo parlor, then he's scrambling for his wallet.
Rifling a battered black canvas thing from his pocket, he reefs it open with a sharp crack of velcro and his fingers quickly liberate an old black and white advertisement. It's wrinkled, torn at the edges, weathered almost beyond recognition. The picture displayed is of a woman's back, her golden hair laid down over her shoulder and out of sight in front. The name of the place still rather clear on the bottom, 'Just Ink'.
"This place? Just Ink? Is this here in New York?" His tone is breathless, hurried, and shaky. The wild expression on his face diminishing into one of hope. "I— I'm sorry fer grabbin' you like tha'… I jus', I ain' seen 'er in so long.."
She glances at the ad, and nods. "That's it — Just Ink, that's what she said," Daphne nods. "Don't worry about it — I mean, obviously you and her, whatever you had, it's important, so I get it. I'm not hurt. I'm not fragile." This last is said a little defensively, but then she glances down at her cell phone.
"Here — here's the address. It's in Greenwich Village. You know your way around?" she says, turning her phone so that he can see the tiny font with the information listed on the yelp.com website. "There's a phone number, too."
But I keep your memory
You visit me in my sleep
My darling, who knew?
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Edgar is holding a tin box with a little level on the side, plunk plunk~ plunk plunk~ plunk plunk plunk plunk plunk~ And the lid pops open to reveal a clown on a spring. Wavering from side to side, its red smiling lips only serve to remind the man of a home he's lost.
The clown is pushed back in and the speedster slowly winds the little metal key around and around. The off-key tune of 'Pop Goes the Weasel' would drive anyone insane, but Edgar's not really paying attention to the music, or even the clown. He has his mind on Lydia, Lydia who is in New York right now and looking for him.
My darling
My darling, who knew?
My darling I miss you
My darling, who knew?
~
Who knew?