Wounded Warsong


michael_icon.gif sarisa_icon.gif

Scene Title Wounded Warsong
Synopsis Recovering from the confrontation with Humanis First, Michael Spalding is paid a visit by Frontline's operations specialist.
Date September 1, 2009

Textile Factory 17

In the cool hours of late afternoon, with the sun setting behind the broken skyline of Manhattan, the quiet confines of Textile Factory 17 are only a mild comfort in comparison to the stiff ache of a recovering gunshot wound. Sitting in a leather armchair, staring out one of the factory windows at the golden sun burning on the horizon, Michael Spalding's focus is anywhere but on the world around him. That distant lack of focus in his dark eyes has his mind elsewhere; thoughts replaying the attack on the Metropolitan Museum of Art in his mind over and over again, his own internal critic scolding him on how he could have done something different, how he could have done things better.

"You know," a teasing voice rises up from the stairwell, "if you keep beating yourself up over what happened this weekend, the terrorists won't even need to shoot you next time." With one gloved hand on the railing, guiding her way up, the leather-jacketed figureof Sarisa Kershner makes her way up to the recreation room, heels clicking on the wood floor.

Michael's languid stare comes into sharp focus, but his head is slow to move and focus on Sarisa, brows knit. He studies her in quiet inspection as she passes by the pool table, pausing to pick up the 8 ball and toss it around between gloved hands. "I spoke to a representative from the Linderman Group today," her dark brows rise up, eyes focused on the black ball in her hands, "they say that Daniel is going to pay a personal visit to you to heal your wounds out of respect for the risk you took saving lives at the — "

"I don't need his sympathy." Michael grunts out as he pushes himself up from the chair, reaching out to grab a wooden cane from nearby as he hobbles a few steps away, one hand on his hip where the first bullet tore through him. "I especially don't need a mobster's sympathy. DOn't you think that looks bad if we're taking favors from— "

"Oh shut up Michael," Sarisa snorts out, hitting the 8-ball down on the table top with a loud clunk, "and have some humility for once. You're shot, your pride might not have been as badly wounded as you were, but sitting around in traction for a few weeks while you lick your wounds isn't going to find the people responsible or rescue Felix Ivanov. What if they find out where Humanis First is holed up, what if the team gets called out and their leader is still in traction." She narrows her eyes, letting the 8-ball go as she starts to make her way across the floor to Michael. "Swallow your pride for once and let him heal you."

There's a wince, certainly not from pain with his much vicodin he's taking, and Michael turns away from Sarisa, hobbling with his cane over towards the kitchenette. "It looks bad for the entire organization." He's stubbornly digging his heels in, not budging from his stance on the matter. As he rounds the counter and enters the kitchenette, Michael pauses and looks back at Sarisa; she's been too quiet after he's said that.

When his eyes settle on her, she's got her focus down on her blackberry, punching in something to the keypad. "What— what're you doing?" Sarisa looks up at Michael's question, one brow quirked and lips pressed together in a sorry were you talking expression.

"I'm cancelling." Both her brows go up, and Michael looks momentarially stunned. "If you don't want to get healed, I'm not going to beat you over the head with it. You can stay here, get looked after, and we can send the remaining three members of an understaffed combat team out into the field against an insurgent military force." The blonde's eyes narrow, "Is that your tactical assessment?"

A derisive snort rips out from Michael as he turns around and opens up the refrigerator, six-packs of long-necked beer bottles clinking and clattering on the door. His brows go up, looking down at what is so obviously Tristian's handiwork, and then his eyes close. When Michael's head hangs, Sarisa gives the faintest hint of a smile behind her usually smirking expression. "I'm not sure I heard your answer," Sarisa adds snarkily.

"Fine." There's a roll of Michael's shoulder as he stands up, looking back over at Sarisa with brows creased. "Fine. Have Linderman come over, have him heal me. But I'm only doing this because I need to be out there with the rest of the team when we're called. I need to be there when we take down Humanis First." Sarisa's eyes survey Michael carefully, and she quietly tucks her blackberry back into her jacket without doing anything else.

Looking bewildered, Michael hobbles a few steps away from the refrigerator, slapping it shut with his cane. "What? Do you want me to limp over and get down and beg for you to re-schedule it, or are you just going to leave it cancelled to teach me a lesson?" Licking her lips, Sarisa rolls one shoulder and makes her way over to the window Michael was looking out before, smiling softly as she does.

"I don't need to," she admits subtly. "I wasn't cancelling the appointment, I was confirming it." When Sarisa looks over her shoulder to Michael, there's a knife-like smile cut across her face sharply. "I just needed your consent."

Immediate surprise, confusion and frustration takes turns playing over Michael's face, followed by one hand bracing his head as he shakes it slowly, fingers splayed across his brow. "You…" his words fail him briefly, "you're just as bad as I heard." Presumably from General Autumn in one alcohol induced rambling anecdote. At the comment, Sarisa just raises her brows and smiles coyly.

"I didn't earn my job by getting coffee and taking phone calls." Turning away from the window entirely, Sarisa folds her arms and leans her back against the window frame. "You'll be good as new by tomorrow, and when we get Felix Ivanov back from Humanis First, maybe you'll be the one to get a medal this time." All Michael can do is deliver a deadpan stare at Sarisa, followed by a heavy sigh as he turns back towards the refrigerator.

"You're really a harpy sometimes," he pulls the refrigerator door open, slouching his shoulder as he leans his head in to look for something resembling food. Sarisa raises one finger, waggling it from side to side as she offers him a chiding click of her tongue.

She's not disputing it.

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