Participants:
| Scene Title | Womanizer Womanizer |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard resumes his role as go-between for a taciturn Ethan, who promptly delivers a well-placed 'Shut the fuck up, my son,' when Deck fails to keep his mouth shut. |
| Date | January 18, 2008 |
Brooklyn is located on the westernmost point of Long Island and shares its only land boundary with Queens. The East river borders and defines the borough's northern coast, Coney Island, Brighton Beach, and Manhattan beach are to the south, and the Narrows separate it from Staten Island to the southwest.
Downtown Brooklyn is one of the NYC's largest business districts. Between the Bridge and Prospect Park, brownstones, townhouses, and high-end restaurants are dominant. The culturally diverse communities of Williamsburg and Greenpoint are snugged against the East River to the far north. Close by are far more criminally active neighborhoods such as Brownsville, Crown Heights, and Bushwick. Regardless of the social situation, the so-called Borough of Neighborhoods is packed to the gills in post-bomb NYC.
It's cold and Deckard is miserable. Granted, it's not an unusual state for him to be in, lately. So it might be more accurate to say that it's cold and Deckard is himself, which in this case means that he is on the drowsy side of a night out drinking and has blood dried all down one side of his face. His pacing is hitched, too, crotch having misjudged some distance somewhere and thrown itself onto a knee instead of into a hoohah.
He's not long off the Verrazano-Narrows bridge, only freshly arrived on the Brooklyn side of things, but out in general long enough for ice to have frosted its way into the dusty curl of his hair and across the flat shoulders of his overcoat. He doesn't even glance at the first strip club he passes, more intent upon finding somewhere to sleep than he is paying a girl half his age to bounce around on his aching junk.
Headlights flash as a vehicle gently roars it's way closer to the man on the side of the road. A black Lincoln Town and Country. The passenger window slowly slides down to allow the music currently blaring from the radio to slip out. 'Womanizer womanizer…'
The driver doesn't do much besides let the car match Deckard's pace, his eyes piercing out at the other through the relative darkness of the car. The man called the Wolf has one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the pistol that rests in his lap. His head gestures to the door.
Annoyingly, the headlights don't get any reaction at all. Deckard keeps walking as if he hasn't seen them, probably because he hasn't. He doesn't slow down to stumble out of his grudging walk until the dulcet tones of Britney Spears assail him from his left side, sunglasses gleaming dully back through the open window at Ethan. And the gun in his lap.
Time for a deep breath. Maybe time for two. Left hand lifted to scratch at the back of his head, after as much procrastination as he can safely manage, Deckard leans to pop the handle and lowers himself (gingerly) down into the passenger's seat. With one last long look at the curb, he slumps his shoulders over enough to close the door behind himself. Clunk.
The radio is unceremoniously shut off as the passenger window slides up and the door is locked. The man in the drivers seat says nothing, he motions with one hand to the seatbelt before returning his hand back to the gun on his lap. Ethan says nothing, he simply drives. And waits.
There's a minute flinch when the door locks. A downward twitch at one brow, a tic at the clench of his jaw. Deckard reaches across the flat of his chest, pulls the seatbelt down. Fastens it. Opens his mouth, closes it again. Sets his jaw. Tries again. "She sent a phone."
His hand gestures to the glovebox. Ethan seems to be in a very non-talkative mood. His attention goes from the road back to the man seated next to him, then back again. Then he slowly brings up his hand from his gun for one second, giving a gesture as if to continue.
What's in the glove box? Deckard faces forward long enough to determine that the answer is…nothing. Then it occurs to him that he should probably put the phone in there, so he does, right hand having to work to dig it out of his overcoat pocket past the clench of his seatbelt. The glovebox is popped, in it goes, and his knee does the rest, shoving the door back up into place. His head tips sideways against the window then, breath fanning foggily across the glass while he watches skeletons go by.
"She's going to call every day at 11 AM until you pick up."
The door is unlocked, the little lever thingy popping up as Ethan hits the button and slows at a stop light. Then he comes to a full stop. Yes it seems like Ethan is not talking at all tonight. The weapon is lifted with his free hand while the hand on the steering wheel gesticulates that he should get out. He doesn't even look at Deckard.
Deckard's skull raps once against the glass at the stop, leaving behind a mottled crust of blood when he leans back to unfasten his seatbelt, thumb tripping over the latch twice before it gives. "Not very talkative tonight, my son," he observes, maybe a little cockily while he performs the unfamiliar-car-where-the-fuck-is-the-door-handle grope. "No threats this time?"
No, no threats tonight. But at Deckard's attempt at irony, well it certainly does get a rise. A rise of his weapon. The butt of the gun comes swiftly at the side of Deckard's temple. The gun is then pulled back so the more dangerous end is pointed at the man's head.
"More of an action man, tonight, my son." He says, a tad oddly.
Deckard's head rocks from the blow, only just avoiding thumping back into the interior of the door again. Pretty thoroughly dazed, to the point where he seems likely to skip go and go straight to unconsciousness, he half lifts a hand towards the point of contact, only to have some part of himself become hazily aware of the fact that the gun is still there. Pointing at him. Static dazzles thick around the car's engine, and glasses askew, he turns his head the degree or two required to look blearily back at Ethan.
Giving a little sigh, the man's eyes roll as he switches the gun to the other hand. The gun still trained on Deckard he reaches across him to grab the handle. (He is well aware of where it is) And pops it just a bit. Then he will go to place his hand on the man's shoulder and push him out.
There are various thumps and bumps as Deckard's knees and elbows fail to find ample room to manuever in on the way out, but that's definitely where he's headed. Left hand finally lifted to the side of his head, he trips over the curb and has to stagger to stay on his feet.
The door claps shut behind him.
New York is full of jerks.
 January 17th: How to Break a Hero in One Easy Step |
 January 18th: All That Makes Us Human Continues |