Participants:
| Scene Title | You Can Run |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | …but you can't hide. Unless on a boat. Then you can do neither. Incidentally, you can't do either from the past, also. |
| Date | February 11, 2009 |
Manhattan Coast: Aboard the Casino Royale
It is dusk by the time the Casino Royale docks at a rundown little harbor on the coast of Manhattan, and they have to move fast. Stolen boats might be the least of the city's worries, but you never can be too careful. They've been resting in the water for a good few minutes, as women - two of them, garishly dressed in sequins and silks far too flimsy for the chilly evening - are escorted off the boat and onto the jetty, stiletto heels clicking as they laughing together, headed away and for where a car would be waiting, a man with a cigarette his in hand following along and keeping his moderate distance. Security. Whores. There really is only one place this boat could have come from.
Jack's here for more than one reason tonight. His 'cargo' is escorted to the shore and traded with the driver for a slim briefcase with half a broken handcuff dangling and a few spots of blood clinging to the grip. He nods his thanks, tips a brief salute, and makes his way back to the Royale with a whistle on his lips that plays a merry counterpoint to the jingling of the shattered cuff.
Shoving off is a simple procedure. One casting line is quickly cut and then Jack is making his way up to the enclosed bridge. When he steps in, the battered attache case is tossed to Tavisha with a casualness that belies the value of its contents. "Keep an eye on that for me, will you? And watch the blood. My crew's not allowed to get herpes."
As the boat is hovering at a low, throaty idle, the most time-consuming portion of the departure is turning it around.
He's been sitting there, watching the water and those floating on over it for hours now, occasionally closing his eyes for just a moment- if only because there's little else to do. Despite his close watch, no one's spoken to him since he's been here, which may have to do with the fact that even in clear sight, no one could actually see him.
Claude sits, invisible, on the hard ground, arms folded over his chest to fend off the cold. His eyes are closed and have been for a while now. The only reason he doesn't drift off to sleep entirely is sudden laughter nearby, courtesy of Jack's 'cargo'. Right, that would be his cue. Jack does not make his trip back to the boat alone, though the second set of footsteps - their sound muffled easily by the rumble of the boat itself - lingers no further than the deck. Likely to find another spot to doze.
Tavisha catches the attache case automatically, blinks, and looks down at it. And decides he doesn't want to know, avoiding the spatters of blood and the broken handcuffs as he sets it down somewhere secure. "I don't want to know, do I?"
The gentle growl of the boats engines, the sound of Jack in this proximity, means he entirely misses the additional sounds of another soul on board. He peers out towards where the hookers are climbing into their car, which readily pulls away. "We should get going," he says, gently, not that the captain of this ship doesn't already know that, but being out here— it just makes him a little nervous for reasons hard to define. Or not so hard to define, but secretive all the same.
With the throttle engaged and waves splashing beneath the deck, a pleasant, watery murmur plays backdrop to Jack and Tavisha's conversation. It's a sound that Jack's grown accustomed to. A soothing lullaby or a lover's whisper in his ear. His attention is occupied enough by it that it takes him a moment to catch Tav's queries. "Already on it," he replies happily. "The Royale's a fast bitch, but it takes her a minute to build up steam. And no, you don't want to know. Just don't drop that fucker, or I'll take it outta your pay." The jab isn't even half-hearted. The pirate winks over at his protege and then returns his attention to the journey.
Out on the deck, the ship's uninvited passenger thinks himself, as is usually case with his acquired experience, completely unnoticed to others in the vicinity. Claude doesn't intend to meddle, and it doesn't take him long to find his way downward. Far as places to crash go, the cargo hold seems likely to be a good option. Ho hum.
It's warm down there too, if a little louder, less peaceful and comfortable than the upperdecks. Tavisha, currently, is enjoying the exposure of cold air lifting off the river, faster now as the Royale makes her swift path through the water. The screen of a window protects them from the most of it, but there's just enough to ruffle hair and clothing. He is slowly getting used to the sounds as well, of pumping water, of undulating river lifting against the boat's hull, of the engines and—
His brow lowers, and he Listens a little harder. But then again, the varied sounds of the boat aren't completely unlike a heartbeat, in a sense, and this is such a small disruption that it could be anything…
"I'll be back," Tavisha says, somewhat abruptly, setting down the case and heading for the ladder that leads downward without so much as waiting for a response. Hell, he could be taking an emergency piss over the side, right? Although the tension in his voice would communicate it to be rather important, piss or not.
The sudden action/reaction earns a curious glance from Jack, but little else. Sure, he could go investigate, but then who'd be driving the boat?
The pirate sets the tiller with their course fixed for Staten Island, shoots a glance down the ladder after his companion, and then shrugs. The briefcase is snagged with one toe and dragged companionably close to his boots for safe keeping.
"Oi!" he calls out as an afterthought. "Hurry back. I need to use the head, too."
The heartbeat of a disruption in the cargo hold continues at its steady pace, slowing gradually as Claude takes a look around. He doesn't mind the noise much, because it will serve its purpose if he ever manages to find a comfortable spot. Shouldn't fall too deep asleep, anyway. It does, however, also do a good job of keeping him from noticing the noises of someone else coming down.
Jack gets no response, just a vague wave of acknowledgement from Tavisha as he moves. It's hard to conceal footsteps, but unconsciously, Tavisha finds himself sneaking anyway. Besides… if he's right, it may be a good idea. If he's wrong, he'll just feel a little foolish. Considering the dreams, the hallucinations, he doesn't alert Jack to this concern as he probably should - it might just be his imagination.
He doesn't turn on any lights as he descends down, down to the lower level of the generous little ship. He can still hear it, a calm, pulsating rhythm, now accompanied by the faint sounds of breathing. Whoever has snuck onboard, if there is someone, isn't particularly worried. He may start to, however, as Tavisha moves to open the door that leads into the interior of the lower deck.
Oblivious, Jack hums tunelessly under his breath as he dodges away from his station long enough to secure himself a bourbon and a cigarillo. Another day in the life. More hookers delivered, more unidentified packages en route to nameless, unsavory customers, and a stowaway for a bit of spice and variety.
Just as Claude is about to settle down for the duration of the trip, that door opens right in his line of sight. The stowaway may have let his guard drop slightly, but it's picked right back up. And, incidentally, so does his heartbeat and breathing. Still, it's no more than a minor obstacle. His ego hasn't quite grown to the size of where he assumes anyone is looking for him yet. After all, why would they? He was quiet enough, right? The invisible man gets back to his feet slowly, so as to make the minimum amount of sound, and looks around for a corner to slip away in, just in case.
It's dark, and for the moment, Tavisha keeps it that way, silhouetted without definition in the doorway, the lights from outside only helping to cast angular shadows from this angle. Stepping inside, he simply stands still for a moment, listening. Heart beat fills the room, now, and breathing attempted to keep quiet, and the raise in tempo is definitely noted. He's still willing to write it off, however, but it's the brush of feet against floor as the stowaway attempts to find a hiding spot that moves him to act.
Jack. Tavisha's disembodied voice, unheard by the stowaway, drifts through the pirate's head up above. A one-way mode of communication, but it serves its purpose. Kill the engine. Stowaway.
That's when he chooses to turn on the lights, a yellow cast that floods the storage room readily, eyes searching out the room for whatever is revealed to him. Which is… nothing.
Jack has never heard a voice in his head before. Not one he recognized, anyway. There's a sense of urgency to the message. A presence and personality that's undeniable. He's not imagining this, and it's not another flashback.
Hopefully.
He cuts the engine and allows the boat to coast, immediately reducing ambient noise to a bare whisper. The Webley revolver that he never lets out of reach is clasped tightly in his hand as he bolts to the ladder and slides down on his boots without bothering to use the rungs. As soon as he lands, he draws a vicious, double-edged dagger from the sheath at the small of his back. He stalks down the hallway with his firearm at the ready and the tip of his tongue tracing a slow, lecherous line along the flat of his knife blade.
The silhouetted figure is barely given any attention by the invisible stowaway, who suddenly finds his comfortable hiding spot to be more of a cage than anything else. Still, it's all standard procedure for his sneaking about, until… well. Until the light.
Claude stands still but for a hand that swoops up to above his eyes, squinting as they adjust to the very light that, for others, doesn't even seem to hit anyone. When he can finally see properly, his lips pull into an unseen sneer and his hand moves back down and behind him to press against a wall. Suddenly hiding in an enclosed space seems like considerably less of a good idea.
"… Oh, for fuck's sake."
That voice— it's almost familiar. For a split second, barely the time it takes for him to turn his head in that direction, expression going stony and eyes wide as if attempting to see better. But the de ja vu passes instantly, and he lifts a hand. Claude is, at first, spared from the lashing of telekinesis— instead, cargo crates are suddenly shifted, swinging against where they'd been fixed in a misguided attempt to reveal someone behind them— but nothing. Did he— surely this isn't yet another ghost.
His fingers curl in uncertainty.
Then, Tavisha waves his hand in a clumsy, unpracticed manner, just as the sound of Jack's footsteps heralds his arrival, and Claude will find himself knocked over with a blind and invisible hook of telekinetic energy.
"You know, I never get tired of that," Jack murmurs appreciatively as he draws up alongside Tavisha. His knife is now held out low and to the side, its tip quivering with the wielder's anticipation. The tip of his revolver tracks a quick path from side to side, but there's no target to fix on. Slowly, he lowers it and cocks his head to the side. Nothing to hear, either. Then again, his head is still ringing from the drone of twin diesel engines.
Jack furrows a dark brow curiously and glances back over at Tav. "Where? I don't see shit, man."
It could be another ghost! That option is entirely open, until the unwelcome tagalong proves himself to be very much tangible— Soon enough, there's a thunk of Claude's body hitting one of the walls before he can manage to try and make his way out, with an accompanying growl in pain. The seemingly disembodied voice sounds again, this time slightly muffled, but with added anger to its tone. "Everywhere I go. Can't even go on a trip without running into you, can I?" He stays down, throwing another glance into the boat's current owners' direction. Jack gets a look over too, now, and an exasperated sigh.
Tavisha is about to toss a helpless look Jack's way— before the sound of a thud, and a voice, definitely a voice, sounds in the room. Sharper than the disembodied voices in his head, distinct, all the subtle nuances of a throat producing such sounds that only his ears can pick up. He points in that direction, other hand drifting to clutch Jack's arm. "Please tell me you hear that," he says, voice laced with tension. And then, the words themselves register, and the pointing hand curls into a different position, ready to grab— if he even can. He doesn't try it yet, just glares into empty space. Now to figure out if he was talking to Jack, or… His other hand raises, and the door behind them suddenly slams shut with a twitch of his fingers.
Jack doesn't seem any more thrilled with this situation than Tavisha does. They're being talked to by the air. Or something. "Yeah, kid," he growls distractedly, his eyes narrowing as if that'll help him better pierce whatever the hell is going on here. "I hear it too. Stay by the door."
No, this won't be easy. There's only one way in or out of this room.
"NOW THEN," Jack calls out, grimacing visibly at the distasteful task of addressing empty air. "If you meant trouble, you'd have made it already. Let's have a look at you."
Having been found out, there's little need to be sneaky anymore. There's a weary groan as Claude gets to his feet, fists clenched and eyes flitting between the closed door, Jack and Tavisha. Wait, what?
"Somehow that doesn't seem in my best interest." The air replies, with a decidedly un-airlike huff. "Seems you're the one making trouble, to me. Might be the weapons. Might be the human can opener."
Stay by the door. It's Jack's boat and Tavisha can follow orders well enough, stepping back as instructed and that hand lowering. Confusion paints his features when the entity speaks up again, and he shakes his head. "Jack, do you know him?" he asks, the question open and honest, because at least one person in this room is acting like it. There's nothing familiar, anymore, about the rough-voiced British accent, or the invisibility.
"Know him? It's a him?" Jack grimaces and shakes his head briskly. "I never met no air that cracked jokes."
He raises his revolver again, tracking the enormous barrel of the weapon toward the voice in an attempt to keep some sort of bead on the apparition. "Talk to it, Girlname. Something. I know you hate the sight of blood, but I'm about to start shootin' an' see what happens."
Fear has never been something Claude accepted easily. As such, he's just getting more frustrated with each second that passes. "Hff." That may have been a chuckle, had he bothered. "'It's a him'. Your bus must've been real short, yeah?" He frowns and his eyes stay trained on Tavisha now, as he steps once toward them and once sideways, hopefully escaping any direct harm should the boat's owner have triggerfingers.
Tavisha just stays where he is, blocking the exit, and glances at Jack - an impatient sigh escapes him at that comment on blood, before doing as asked. "He means it," he says, addressing Claude as directly as he can - oddly enough, he's rather used to talking to disembodied voices, but it's still weird. "He'll kill you if it's easier. You're really… really on the wrong boat. Just show us who you are and we can— " A doubtful glance to Jack. "— figure this out. Or I can tell him you're stepping to the left," head tilts in that direction, "right about now."
"Good lad," Jack nods to Tavisha approvingly as he adjusts his aim. It might not be perfect, but with a .455 rimfire round, it hardly needs to be. "Kid's right, Ghost. There's only one way out of this room, and if you make me blast rounds off in my new boat, I swear to Christ that you won't make it out that door in less than five pieces." His ire grows with every word, and his teeth snap emphatically as he caresses the trigger of his Webley with a tender touch.
Something is very, very off. Claude doesn't know whether to laugh or just stare in awe, but neither seems particularly productive right now. For a moment there's just silence as he gives one last look around him.
Then, a mere couple of yards from the two men, a third, scruffy, and very very annoyed example of the breed appears. His fists now calmly by his sides and head dipped low while both confusion and anger twist his features. "What's your name?" This appears to be aimed at Tavisha first, before his glance slides briefly to the gun wielder.
When the entity suddenly becomes material, Tavisha's eyes widen for a moment in unwilling awe, the corner of his mouth hitching up in the briefest of smiles. But it's not a look of familiarity, unrecognition evident. Just awe. And then— the stranger speaks first, Tavisha feeling almost pinned in place by what's directed towards him. It's an odd question, all things considered, but Tavisha answers it after only a split second of hesitation. Impulse. "Tavisha." Not Tav, as Jack had suggested he use, but his name, pronounced as correctly as he knows it to be.
"Jesus. Nice work, Girlname." Jack squints his eyes closed and pulls a pained expression. "Why don't you give him your social security number while you're at it?" The chiding is good-natured, but he still clucks his tongue disapprovingly as he takes a step forward. "I'm Mr. Big-Dick, and you're about to get fucked if you don't tell me what you're doing on my boat, Ghost."
Tavisha? Girlname indeed. Claude cracks a grin now, even if it wavers in uncertainty. His mind races and he hesitates for a second, before some of the annoyance appears to melt right off of him. "Well, I was hoping to catch a free ride to Staten Island, but I hadn't expected running into you!" With that, he simply steps forward, arms opening wide as he approaches Tavisha. Regardless of the gun, it seems. His voice, now, has only a smidge of bitterness, though well disguised behind a smile. "The threatening was a bit of a surprise, I'll admit— don't you recognize me, friend?"
Well I don't have a social security number, Tavisha's own disembodied voice lashing almost angrily through Jack's head, unwilling to yell at him where Ghost can hear it but at least wanting to make his point, and then…
…huh— wha?
It—
…
Tavisha actually retreats as Claude approaches, back hitting the closed door and hands coming up to fend off the— hug? Well it certainly seems to be shaping up to be a hug. "I'm sorry— friend?" he says, open confusion in his voice— and maybe, just maybe, the embers of hope. A glance to Jack that reads 'I have no idea', then back to Claude, studying his face for any sign of familiarity. "Do we— we know each other?"
Again, Jack's not used to voices in his head that he knows are real. He winces at the vehemence of Tavisha's comment, but he nods understandingly. After all, he doesn't exactly have legal papers either. "Well fuck me," he mutters tiredly, matching his protege's glance with one of his own. "Kid, you're a serious pain in my ass, y'know that?" he jabs rhetorically. "But if this guy knows you, I can't exactly kill him, can I?"
He seems to be working the painfully confusing issue out aloud. Before tonight, air had never talked to him and nobody had ever held a conversation in his head. "Nnng," he grunts as he tucks away his firearm. "There. Now we can all be friends."
"Yeah!" If anything, Tavisha retreating only encourages Claude further. His voice continues in a most jovial way, as he fights not to grit his teeth and do the exact opposite of being friendly. He stops in front of Tavisha for a second, glancing to Jack, "Well, he never did give me his proper name, secretive as he was," then back to Tavisha, "but you and I, ha, we've been through some times! Did you hit your head again?" He reaches forward in an attempt to force his so-called friend into a very brief, but uncomfortably tight hug. Oh, you.
This time, it takes, Tavisha steered only a little unwillingly into a hug as he rapidly blinks at the opposite wall, tensing when the man's arms wrap tightly around him. But the friendliness is there, and so he manages, barely, to return the hug, hands clapping Claude lightly on the back and at least it's over quickly. He casts another look towards Jack, as if seeking advice on how, exactly, to reckon with this, then looks at Claude. Finally, the corner of his mouth twists up in a smile, and he says, "Something like that." A bridge fell on him. That counts as hitting his head. "I haven't— I'm sorry, I haven't met anyone who knew me before— before. What's your name?"
When Tavisha glances at Jack for guidance, the Somali pirate shrugs and puts on his best, most honestly baffled expression. He's certainly never been hugged by a guy he doesn't know. Not only has he never bumped into someone from his own forgotten past, it would just be gay.
Kind of like what's happening now.
Claude pulls back from the hug with a grin, and rolls his eyes. "What's my name. Today's just full of these questions isn't it? Do you really not remember?" He looks to both the men for a moment, nodding in belated greeting, "Claude Rains." he answers, and is then quick to add, "Last time we met we had a bit of a row, and you broke a few ribs of mine." This is true, too! Tavisha's face is studied now. "Good for a laugh, you. Mind you I probably shouldn't have provoked you on a bad day. Does he pull that stuff on you too, Mr. Dick?" You'd hardly know it was anything more than a lighthearted insult.
"That's Captain Dick to you," Jack retorts, poking a finger at the air in Claude's direction. "And he doesn't pull any of my stuff, thankyewverymuch."
This is a difficult moment for Jack. Instinct is telling him to gut this guy like a fish and throw him overboard. 1) he's a stowaway. 2) he's at least as witty as Jack, which is not allowed on Jack's boat. Unfortunately, gutting Claude would deny Tavisha the opportunity to explore this link to his past. That would be impolite, and it would create a terrible mess on the floor.
A long, groaning sigh slips from between Jack's lips and he beckons both men toward the hatch. "C'mon, kid. Bring your Ghost upstairs so we can have a drink."
It's like a parent telling their kid they CAN let their friend sleep over. Tavisha casts Jack a smile of gratitude, and turns to pull the door open, a rush of cold air entering the warmer room. The boat has come to a drifting still, by now, and Tavisha steps out onto the swaying deck. Claude Rains. This time, he doesn't get the reference. "I'm sorry, about your ribs," he tells Claude. "For what it's worth, anyway. But it's true, I don't remember anything, not since the end of last month." He leads the way, pulling himself up the ladder onto the second level. "Maybe you know something about that," he adds. "I was on the Narrows Bridge when it collapsed."
All Jack gets from Claude is a smile and an uncharacteristically obediant nod. 'Captain Dick'. He can live with that.
He follows onto the second level, smile faltering when he briefly drops out of eyesight for both of the other men. His heart is still beating fairly quickly, but he's hoping this may be confused with enthusiasm instead of something along the lines of 'oh god what have I gotten myself into?'. "The bridge?" He winces, and forces a grin back on his face. "I hear that wasn't pretty. You're lucky you're still alive!" That may have actually physically hurt a little to say. "Memory loss or not. How did the bloody hell you end up on a boat?"
This is a question that Jack's happy to chime in with an answer to. "I was the one wot hauled him outta the water," he explains to Claude. "Lil' bastard was tryin' to drink my river down and spoil my business."
Luckily for everyone, he's as quick with his hospitality as he is to anger. When they reach the middeck, he leads them toward the salon rather than up to the control room, and with good reason. This area is spacious and well-accomodated, suitable for entertaining a dozen people or more. The furniture is plush, the carpet is thick, and the bar selection is expansive.
"Welcome to my fuckyacht, Ghost. Bourbon?"
"His name is Claude," Tavisha says with a slight chuckle, chastising but not quite, heading to go perch on the arm of one of the couches rather than sit down fully. Not really in the mood for relaxing. "But he's right," he says, looking towards Claude. "He fished me out of the river, after everything went, I guess, to hell. I probably would have died."
Sorry to disappoint you, Claude. Blame Jack Discreetly, he's why we can't have nice things.
Tavisha holds out a hand to Jack for his inevitable serving of bourbon as well, but mostly, he can't stop studying the once-stowaway, and smiles almost bashfully, an expression that likely wouldn't have suited the man Claude actually knew, but maybe the man even before that that went by a name that escapes everyone in the room. "I know you don't even know my real name, but I'd— really appreciate it if you could tell me whatever else you know. If I… have family, or anyone else who knew me. Anything, really, it's…" A guilty glance is cast to Jack, guilt for what is not vocalised.
Although Claude is initially impressed with said… 'fuckyaught' (and admittedly, that name makes him chuckle even if it's just in favor of hiding the halfsneer that may have been there otherwise), he shakes his head at the offer. "Very generous, but. Empty stomach, and this day's already been strange enough without a buzz." Plus, taking drinks from strangers is not exactly something Claude tends to agree to.
He saunters over to a couch, sits back and eyes his newfound 'buddy' with a contemplative, feigned smile. "Sorry, friend." He looks away almost apologetically, but in reality, just toward a door. Escape plans have to be kept in mind. "As said, you kept to yourself. We just sort of… ran into each other and bashed each other over the head." His eyes narrow slightly at this, once more at the person in question. "In good fun."
When Tavisha glances at Jack this time, the pirate locks eyes with the younger man and graces him with a brief, approving nod. Though the older man often seems willing to let his forgotten past stay forgotten, he can still understand the lure that Tav is feeling. After drinks are poured, he digs a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shakes one out between his lips, and leaves the rest on the bar. "Well, I s'pose somebody ought to drive us home. You two lovebirds have fun. There's rubbers in the drawer next to the fridge if you need."
And Tavisha tries to conjure up the incident Claude describes, and shakes his head faintly when none of it comes about. Just blank, and he swirls the liquor in his glass a little before taking a generous sip for fortitude. Jack's comment gets him a flat and resentful look from Tavisha, but a twitch of a smile all the same. The joke can be taken, especially as the man is willing to steer them home on his lonesome. "Yell if you need anything," he says, quietly, before peering into his glass of bourbon. When he next speaks, it's to Claude. "Maybe you can— tell me if… Was I dangerous?" The look Claude gets is studious and searching, and terribly earnest.
Charming, Cap'n Dick. Charming.
Claude gives a smirk, though it's wiped off of his face soon enough by the question that follows. "Yes." He answers, "According to the rumors. Then again, you had some collection of parlour tricks up your sleeve." He stops then, brow furrowing and head tilting. "Ooh, you haven't forgotten about those too, have you? I mean, appart from your telekinesis." He rubs his shoulder, bruised from earlier.
Rumours. Parlour tricks. Your telekinesis. Any nagging uncertainty Tavisha had about Claude is thrown out the window. He knew him. He definitely knew him. Standing up from his perch on the couch arm, he moves quickly across the salon to sit near Claude, excitement almost palpable as he sets his drink aside. "I've forgotten them," he confirms. "Learning new ones every day, it feels like. Look…" He spread a hand, and without a sound, rays of blue light trickle from his fingertips - harmless, at this setting, and he lets them sweep across the room. "I can make it— burn stuff too." They die again, eyebrows raising as he looks back at Claude, chin tucking as he says, "Do you know what I can do? Apart from the— telekinesis." He'd been calling that his 'move stuff when I wave my hands' trick, this new word almost foriegn sounding.
Claude nearly gets straight back up when Tavisha moves closer, one hand digging into the couch's fabric. But he takes a breath, tries to calm himself, and is actually genuinely intrigued by the blue light. Burn stuff. That's good to know. "— No." This answer comes quite quickly after the last question, before he can even think about it. He then seems to realize his mistake, and elaborates with an absent scratch at his cheek. "Not in… particular. Well, there's the… what was it, improved hearing?" He never was quite sure about that. Seems like the right time to ask.
"Yes!" Bright smile. Point. No lasers, at least. "Yes, that's right. Super hearing, it's— kind of amazing, but I can't turn it off. Kind of a double edged sword? It's how I found you were even here. I could hear your heart." Tavisha picks up his drink again, another deep sip of it. He's picking up new habits, not that Claude knows any of the old ones, and that's an entirely new appreciation for drinking. Mostly to fit in with the company he finds himself in.
As if the very thing had ears, Claude's heart skips a beat. He looks very neatly in between distressed and amused for a moment - watch where you point that thing! - before clearing his throat and nodding along. "Yeah, right. Your super hearing. I remember now." That snippet of information is stored away. This is turning out to be a very, very interesting trip indeed. "Weren't there other things like that? Passive things?"
He may be pushing it a bit, now, but… really now. When do you get this sort of an opportunity? The facade of friend, however, is momentarily dropped for one of sheer intrigue.
"Passive?" Tavisha repeats, a little quizzically. He's naive, yes, as only someone with all their worldly wisdom snatched away could be, but living on Staten Island sort of gives you a makeshift cynicism, and now his eyes narrow at Claude a little. But whatever the concern is, it passes. For now. The earnestness fades a fraction, however. "I wouldn't know," he says, apologetically. "Sometimes I work out what I can do, sometimes only— fragments. Ideas. Like I hear these voices, in my head, and I don't— even begin to understand what it means. Birds, too. I can kind of feel what they feel. I can't switch those off either." He shrugs, looking down into his drink. "Jack's helping me figure them out." Uh. Shit. He winces. "That would be, ah. Captain Dick. Don't tell him I said his name."
Claude's cover almost slips completely, annoyance seeping back in when Tavisha fails to let him know, exactly, what he wants to know. But then there's Jack's name, and the mistake, and he just laughs, standing and reaching to give Tavisha a seemingly amicable pat on the back, even if it lands a bit hard. "You know, I think we're nearly there. I'll go say goodbye to Cap'n Dick, and— " He stops himself midsentence, frowning with what is honest concern. If not for Tavisha, then for himself. "Do you have somewhere to stay? Here? I've got a few things to do the island, but I'll have to get back in a few days. We could talk more, try to bring back those memories of yours." … Or something like that, anyway.
"I'm staying on Swinburne Island," Tavisha answers, before knocking back the rest of his drink, not getting up, however. The glass is set aside. "For the most part, there's also a place I can go on Staten Island. No where in Manhattan, I presume that's where you live, right?" A half smile. "Those rumours… I guess travel fast. I've been advised it's not a good idea to go there. But I can get you back there, if that's what you need."
"That would be absolutely perfect." Claude's smile returns once more, mostly out of relief he's managed to pull this stunt off, and he starts with a few steps backward toward the way out. Something about the idea of turning his back to Tavisha, STILL, does not agree with him. "Ah— right. You forgot." A wry grin. "I live just about anywhere, actually." Occasionally on Phoenix's doorstep, but that reminds unmentioned. "Sorry to be off in such a hurry, but I've got someone of my own to try and fish up out of the waters. If it's not too late for that one."
Tavisha's eyebrows raise in surprise, but he simply nods. "Good luck," he offers. "Maybe if you look around Filatov's clinic, he might know something about that. He healed me after I was found. It's in the Rookery. I'll probably see you there, or at the harbor we're docking at." A shrug, not quite shy, just reserved. "I'm glad I met you, Claude." A slightly awkward addition of, "Thanks."
Claude chuckles halfheartedly, half out of awkwardness and half out of just plain being amused. "Filatov? I'll keep a look out for it. And for you." His smile fades slightly, into somewhat of an amazed expression. He really is going to be out of here in one piece. "I'm glad I…" He pauses, then looks vaguely smug as he finds the proper end to his sentence, "found you this way, and not another."
 February 11th: Death Wish |
 February 11th: Spill |