Participants:
| Scene Title | You Know She's A Cop, Right? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After a bloody night, Cardinal and Deckard are both called to the same safehouse for different reasons - but for the same person. |
| Date | August 26, 2009 |
The night has been …. insane hardly covers it. Especially for Deckard. There was barely an hour's notice on the Humanis First hit on the safehouse. And there are people dead on the ground — both operatives for the Ferry as well as some refugees. About the same time the trucks managed to pull away from the compound, an urgent text went to Deckard to meet Hana at yet another safehouse.
When he arrived at the safehouse, it was to literally find a Ferry paramedic doing his level best to work on what seriously looked like a blonde corpse. Why Elisabeth was still breathing is anyone's guess, but breathing — barely — she was. Naked and and slackly waterlogged down to the compressed balloons of its lungs, the life seems missing. Stringmop yellow hair, recognizable hands, skin turned fluorescent by the light. Bruise patterns: her ribs were smashed over time and her body torqued against impacts, broken-off pieces left to float around the cavity of her torso, limbs seamed with scratches, lifted hair, diluted pus and streaked blue bruises all over, as if they'd thought her a doll to be dismantled to its simplest parts. Rashes browning with incipient rot at the edges of her face, where the blindfold had been knotted too tight and left too long. There's a clot filling Elisabeth's one exposed ear. Some of her fingers are pointing the wrong way. Both her digits and her skull — with the ugly hole in the front clearly visible while the wealth of hair hides the massive damage done to the back of her head by the exit of the bullet — loll too loosely on the bed. That she lives at all is a miracle.
A miracle that Deckard's ability can actually help along, though it will take several sessions. All of the energy that he pours into the woman's body mends the worst damages — internal organs knit, blood vessels repair, her skull seems to regenerate right before Deckard's eyes. The multitudes of smaller injuries are largely ignored by the power in its quest to correct the life-threatening damages. And ultimately he is left literally wrung dry by the effort it requires just to stabilize her. So little time it actually takes, though it perhaps seems like hours. By the time Cardinal is able to get to the scene, a young woman named Lila is offering Deckard a cup of coffee while the paramedic finishes attaching an IV full of saline and painkillers until Deckard is able to try another round.
How Deckard is still on his feet after being drug out've bed at three this morning to heal people and then to help fight off a siege and then to help fix the people hurt said siege and then to repair Elisabeth is less mysterious than Elisabeth's extant state: his sleeves are rolled and there's a pikachu bandaid plastered over a wad of cotton in the crook of his right elbow. Coffee accepted with one hand, a banana already half-eaten in the other, he looks to be at something of a loss re: what he should do with himself now that he's running on empty and most everyone who's still alive and going to stay that way has gone to sleep.
He's still clad in his bullet proof vest from the earlier struggle, navy blue stamped with a yellow F, B and I across the right shoulder and back. Dry blood is caked onto the rumpled white dress shirt beneath that, and across his jeans, but he's had time to scrub his hands and face clean. His long face is sunken in and pale, eyes bright in their hollows and stubble collection gaining ground despite his efforts to keep it shaved down to nothing these days. Were it not for the vest and the emaciation and the blood, he could be any old accountant schmuck dragged in here off the street to oversee Liz's recovery. He hardly looks criminal.
It's been a stressful night for the shadowmorph. The news that Elisabeth was missing was bad enough, but followed up by Cassidy's phone call and Cardinal's been on the edge— checking out the Staten docks at Helena's suggestion despite knowing, deep down, that there's a snowball's chance in hell of finding anything. The message from Hana just told him to come to a specific location, and it was rather a relief, because he knew he wasn't able to think completely clearly. A bit of direction— and, perhaps, distraction— was something he appreciated, even though he didn't know what it was about. It was better than prowling about the watery piers looking for something other the petty dealings of whores and smugglers that he crept through.
It took him a little while, longer than he wanted, to find a boat moving out and slip aboard. As usual, he bypassed the watchers and guards and slipped inside. A shadow sweeps up the wall beside the peeping tom-cum-healer, and pushes outwards as Richard Cardinal pulls himself out of it. He, on the other hand, is in his usual clothes. Jacket, stained shirt, urban camo BDUs, shit-kicker boots stained with a bit of what might be Arthur Petrelli. He doesn't wash them often.
One of the safehouse's residents swears as he makes his appearance, fumbling for a gun, but he just gets an irritable glance from behind the shades before they turn in the direction of the only familiar person he notices first off. "Old man," he greets in a tired and tense voice, "Wireless told me to show up here. What's up?"
"Death, destruction, torture and irreparable psychological damage." Deckard doesn't jump. He doesn't so much as flinch, actually, or look over to confirm that the body that's just shown up is the one that's supposed to go with the voice that's also just shown up. He nips at a clod of fleshy white banana, chews. Indicates Liz with a vacant tip of his coffee cup.
"Someone put a hole in her head. I fixed it. If you want a banana there's a whole bowl of them — " and then he's half-turning as if in search of the nice lady who came in with the bananas three hours ago.
What.
"….what." It's a count of three that passes as Cardinal just stares at Deckard through those shades, then finally looks over in the direction of the woman laying on the bed. Or, you know, what's left of her at least. Then he's physically shoving his way past the attendant that was startled so by the shadowmorph's appearance (but had begun to relax and put his gun away once Deckard wasn't surprised) and nearly skidding to a knee beside the cot. "Liz!" His expression stricken and losing a few shades of colour, he lifts one hand towards Elisabeth's broken, if partially healed, form, then pulls it back, "Shit… what…" A half-twist to look back at the 'old man' from behind those shades, his voice tightening, "How bad is it, Flint?"
The paramedic finishes hanging the bag about the same time and gets the heck out of the way, slanting a glance toward Lila. "There's a couple more bags, but I'm going to bring two more when I come back." His eyes slide over the other two men in the room, and he gestures Lila out ahead of him with a jerk of his chin. She murmurs to both of them, "The kitchen's open whenever you want something. They'll be pulling breakfast together shortly; I'll make sure there's plenty of protein." Deckard's going to need it and she assumes Cardinal's going to be here a while. And then she's gone with the man who never gave his name.
"Rr…someone…put a hole in her head," Deckard starts over again at a faint slur as if he's not sure which part Cardinal didn't get or — if maybe he didn't enunciate enough the first time. A clinging bit of banana is hooked out from between his teeth with his tongue when the younger man goes rushing forward. He's conscious enough to nod a hazy fairwell to the departing paramedic in the meanwhile, more automatic than polite while he tries to hook the peel down a little more with the thumb of the hand that's otherwise busy with coffee. "She's pretty fucked up. …You know she's a cop, right?"
"I fucking heard you the first fucking time," Cardinal snaps with a venom-laced rancor that couldn't possibly actually be directed at Deckard, so it must be getting misdirected from somewhere else— probably whoever did this. The tendons in his neck tighten into cords, lips quivering at one corner as if resisting the urge to snarl before he turns his head towards the detective, one hand reaching out to ever so lightly brush his hand against the back of hers. He tries not to touch the fingers. They don't look in good shape either.
"You know Abby's a Southern Baptist, right?" A quiet mutter of reply to the last comment.
O. Well ok then! Deckard's brow creeps down into a defensive level despite the fact that he's just baffled enough to look like he doesn't know why he's bothering to get defensive. Tall and grey in the shadows that cling on the fringes of lighting kept comfortably low, he slacks off a few shades of dimly annoyed when Card touches upon the subject of Abigail, chill eyes skimming distracted after the work he's done so far. It's kind of cool. She's alive!
"Good point. Southern baptists want to save my eternal soul and cops want to give me life without parole. Were you two fucking?"
After that brief touch, a gentle graze of fingertips over bloodied skin, Cardinal's hand lifts to pull the shades off his face; setting them aside, he reaches over to ever so carefully brush some yellowed hair away from her brow, the strands stuck together in a crusted lock. "…yeah," he says in in quiet, strangely muted tones that're hard to read, "Yeah, we are." Not were. He refuses to use a past tense there. Her chest's rising and falling, there's breath stirring on her lips, it's not past tense. She's alive.
"Humanis." It's said just as quietly, but somehow heavy as lead. A word that falls flat to the ground.
"Great," is Deckard's opinion on that, voice low past the rim of his coffee cup when he lifts it for a sip and steps back in search of a chair, or something chair-shaped enough that he can sit on it. In the end he comes up with a desk that's been shoved back into a far corner, papers and floorplans swept lazily aside enough for him to take a seat while his eyes skim blankly across the far wall. Evidently watching the pair of them is making him uneasy.
"They raided a safehouse. Killed some of the people they had in storage and a couple've operators."
"They've gone too fucking far this time." To hell with the people in storage, the operators, and all, apparently. They hurt this cop he's fucking! There's an undercurrent beneath those words, cold, dangerous, and a sharp contrast to the tenderness in the touch to her brow, though Cardinal's hand pulls back when he notices it's shaking just a little. The tip of his tongue moistens dry lips, and then he turns his head a little, looking towards Deckard from the corner of his eyes, "…will she be— alright? You can fix this, right?"
"I dunno." Too drugged up and sleep deprived to not be even more obnoxiously honest than usual, Deckard turns black eyes back over onto the pair of them with an air of blank neutrality for whether he will or not. It might be mildly infuriating, actually — the way he takes another bite of banana and slouches his shoulders under the stiff of his vest, temporarily immune to hope and worry and fear. "I've tried not to mess with brains."
It is. It's all that Cardinal can do not to snarl out something angry at the other man, try to get him to react, to show that he feels something, anything, but— Deckard doesn't deserve that. Not after everything he's been through, too, and everything he's given them without complaint. So he doesn't say anything at all just then, instead turning back to look towards the fallen detective, lips tightening in a thin line. "Hope that she is," he finally murmurs, quietly.
"She's stable now," muttered absently around a mouthful of half-masticated banana, Deckard swirls coffee around lazy in the bottom of his cup and tries to make himself sit up a little straighter only to fall gradually back into his previous slouch. "Physically if that other guy sets the fingers and got all the pieces of skull out she should wind up…you know. Intact."
"Deckard." Cardinal's eyes close. "Stop helping. Please."
Brows knit again and nose rankled dully behind an unspoken, 'Fine,' Deckard looks Cardinal over from behind and sets his coffee aside to strip the rest of his banana clean with fingers that fumble too much to get the job done with any kind of precision. A piece of peel flops down onto the floor. …He leans slowly out to peer after it.
Once the other man's stopped talking about parts of skull and ruined brain tissue, Cardinal opens his eyes once more, watching the comatose woman's face for a long moment, weight leaning a bit on the cot's edge. "M'sorry, Liz. If this is what they want… fuck it. I'll give it to them," he murmurs, then pulls back from the edge, turning to look back over and ask tightly, "You know if they picked up any prisoners, old man, or did the animals get away free?"
"…I don't think she can hear you." There's Deckard being helpful again, brows tilted in earnest worry that looks too retarded on his face not to be at least somewhat legit. The felled bit of peel is too far for him to reach save maybe for with his toe. Hopefully someone else will have energy enough to lean over and pick it up later. "A couple've them were gunned down, but I think they're dead. I haven't heard anything about any prisoners."
"Then I guess Helena's going to get her wish, then…" Cardinal's head swings back towards Elisabeth as he mutters that enigmatic statement, not really reacting to Deckard's helpfulness this time. Maybe he's just decided that the guy's too damn drugged up to know what he's actually saying. He was bad enough off after fixing a collapsed lung and a liter or two of bloodloss and associated damage, and this is… worse. Much worse. He takes in a breath, then exhales, shoulders sagging forward a bit. "Fuck."
Drugs and all, at some point Deckard's parents managed to beat enough manners into him that he chews the last piece of his banana with his mouth closed. The remaining peel is turned over limp in his hands, then sniffed. Then turned over again. What the hell is he doing? It is a mystery. In any case, he swallows and plops it aside onto the desk next to his coffee, also for someone else to find later. "You gonna stay for breakfast?"
"Yeah. I'll— stay, at least the night." Maybe she'll wake up. Cardinal's clearly torn. He wants to be here, but he also wants to hunt down some people and do very unpleasant things. He keeps most of his reactions internal, though, rather than showing them off in front of everybody. A glance over, and he pauses, staring at Deckard's antics with the banana peel.
He doesn't ask, though. He's discovered enough horror for one night.
"I'm really fucking hungry," confessed without as much feeling as the sentiment carries over into the miserable skew of his expression, Deckard scrubs a hand over the back of his short-buzzed 'do and scoots back on the desk enough to settle himself at a slant against the wall. "I think the bedrooms are upstairs."
"Go eat," comes the reply by the master of the obvious, "Then get some fuckin' sleep, old man. You must've nearly burnt yourself out on her. You need both. I'll stay here." Cardinal's gaze drops back down to the woman on the cot, so small and broken right now, and adds more softly, "Thank you." It might be too quiet to hear.
"I'm forty-two." This is probably an exchange they've had before, but after a moment's slumped consideration, Deckard starts to move to do as he's told. Ooooff the side of the desk he goes, one long leg at a time, the sit of his revolver adjusted automatically in its holster while he gives the pair of them one last looking over. There's no, 'you're welcome.' There's never a, 'you're welcome.' In this case just a sidelong pull at the corner of his mouth and an uncomfortable glance at the floor on his way out through a door that hopefully leads to the kitchen and not into a closet or something.
Deckard's slept in less comfortable places than closets before. Cardinal's found him on a few. As the arguably old man walks away, his attention narrows once more to Elisabeth. Down to sit beside the cot, and he leans against the wall behind it, fingers absently but very gently and gingerly brushing against her hair as he watches her bruised features in that unnatural sleep called unconsciousness, helpless to do anything else. And there he spends the night, waiting for his lover to come back to him.