Helping hand
Five mutant vics in the last month crossed Homicide's desk. Figured it out this morning, when Peters came by. Counting the kid Beston and me caught before that whole shindig with the dumbass duo in the alley? Six. None of them related. Weird trend, though. Most months don't get any. Six mutants. Either there're more in the city than people think, or they're just having a bad few weeks. I can sympathize with that, anyway.
Beston turned out to be the one who made me call Cassidy. Told him I was thinking about it. He remembered the guy. Before my time at the precinct, back when I was with the two-nine. 'Irish fathead' is what he called him first. 'Good cop' is what he said second. Can count on my hands the number of people he's said that about. Cassidy's likeable, I'll give him that. School teacher. Hah. If I were a student at that Xavier place ... well, for one thing, the nuns would've been relieved. Probably wouldn't have made to puberty. Would've gotten my nuts fried off by my English teacher before second period.
Beston and Yamaguchi called in backup today on an MS-13 arrest. Me, I'm stuck behind this damn desk chasing money trails on a white collar motive. Caught Spiccati learning how to play chess from some homeless guy in holding. Asshole still can't find his left shoe. He's convinced Ken's got it.
Really have to call Doc Grey. Dammit. I'm picking up the phone right now.
Phone message from Chris Rossi to Dr. Jean Grey.
"Hey, Doc. It's Chris Rossi. Listen, I got something to ask you about Summers. Kind of hoping you'll be able to answer a question I got. Mind giving me a call back when you got a chance? Call me on my cell, not at the precinct. Thanks, Doc."
---
Central Park South
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, the area here seems no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak, the skyline of New York can be seen looming. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green here, as do the bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
The park is but a hop, skip, and jump away from the precinct, and so it is not a rare thing to find officers here on their breaks: smoking, sauntering, wiling away the madness of the Job -- because for New York's Finest there is only one meaning of the word -- in a refuge of beauty. Man proposes, God disposes. Chris Rossi, sprawled and slouched on a solitary, shaded bench, observes it with a dispassionate eye. Early autumn is a ways yet from defeating summer's heat and humidity, and he has conceded to the latter, loosening his tie and opening his thin blue suit coat to the mercy of a breeze.
The Job is always there, even for those who no longer partake in the official side of things. Subtly watchful eyes take in the park as Sean Casidy saunters through it, a clipboard born in one hand with a pair of biros clipped on it. Blessedly able to wear casual clothing, a light polo shirt and beige slacks make up the Irishman's ensemble. Spotting the man he is to meet from a distance away, he approaches bearing a friendly smile, and couples it with a nod as he gets close. No words, but the obligatory hand comes out for shaking.
A shadow twitches across Chris's face at recognition of the other man; he rises to meet him, reluctance binding his body's ease to a stiffer, less conforming rigidity. "Cassidy," Rossi greets, clasping Sean's hand in his own. And: "Sorry, man. I dragged you all the way out here and now I've got you here, I'm thinking -- well, shit. Doesn't matter. Too late now. Thanks. For coming." Awkward gratitude, though sincere enough beneath the uncertainty.
Intrigue and a momentary frown of interest cross the tilted features, even as the clipboard is thrust forward, a fairly lengthy essay bound on it. "Hi. Read it." is whispered as loudly as Sean dares, and the blurb on the board becomes evident. 'To begin, I should explain this. Recent surgery on my throat; not allowed to speak at the moment. Clipboard is for communication. Nice to see you, though.' Despite the fact that it's one he made earlier. Rapid scribbling takes over as he turns the clipboard back to face him. 'No worries about me coming; it's a pleasure to be out and about. Too late?'
Rossi's frown flicks across the clipboard, skimming, and deepens further still for a blink back up. "Christ," says Chris, guilt surfacing under the dark baritone. A hand rakes through hair in automatic, restless reaction, and he clarifies, "Too late to back out of it now, I meant. Damn. If I'd realized, I wouldn't have--" He breaks off, gaze turning inward, abstracted into calculation. "--Isn't that your, uh, power? The whole voice thing. I read your file."
A quick shake of Sean's head doesn't detract from the reassuring smile, before the clipboard again receives his attention, an occasional glance up designed to hint at the proximity of completion. 'Don't worry. It's a blessing to get away from the school and a load of sympathetic kids. But yes, that is my particular element; and the reason I received the finest medical care in the country. Because it's very important to me that it works again. Anything interesting in my file? Or, failing that, what was this question you're failing to back out of now?' Even as the clipboard is turned back around, the spare hand flickers out to gesture towards the bench with a questioning expression, followed by the red haired man taking his seat.
The pause Rossi takes to reclaim his own long- and loose-limbed drape across the bench is hardly necessary from a physical sense. "School," he echoes on the other end of it, when he is couched and settled and returned to blank-eyed perusal of the path. "Your file was pretty much what you'd expect. IA had it scrubbed so hard you could see your hands through the paper. Doesn't matter. Beston says you're a good cop, and I can count on my fingers the number of times he's said /that/."
'What do you expect from IA? I must've been a PR nightmare for them.' And a little self-satisfied smirk twtiches at Sean's lips for that. 'Beston is a good lad, and tell him thank you. I did my best when I was there. Has he managed to say the same thing about you yet, or do you still have 'little bitch' status, or whatever it is he calls people now? From what I've seen and heard, you've done well, despite what's happened.' Handover of clipboard. Blue eyes drift up to Rossi's face to gauge a reaction to the attempt at humour, and the probing compliment.
"You heard about that?" Resignation and rue annoy the question, nudging it towards self-mockery. Despite his mood, the whisper of a grin lightens Rossi's expression, clipping his mouth towards an angle and curl. "Figures. It's been a fucking bad month. Not the worst, but August was pretty up there. Don't know what Beston calls me to other people. Asshat." There is arrogance and affection in the last, culled from streets and assurance, and Chris drifts a glance askance to note, "He used to call you 'little bitch'?"
'Once, he tried. Didn't seem to appreciate a good old Irish abuse-fest.' Sean writes, breaking into a broad smile. 'Horrible month that almost makes me wish I was back on the Force. Only almost, though. Asshat? Suits him. Good job on collaring those two idiot teenagers, by the way.' Somehow the final words drip with an annoyance, though it's more from the downcast brow and the thin, straight line of lips. 'If you're working MA, you're bound to have a busy life, even if it's only with those who're being accused of untruths.
Collaring. Head canted to read the words as they're scrawled, Chris snorts when that particular one takes shape. "Not our collar. Nearly got ourselves flattened by a car, not to mention the goddamn lightning. Fucking useless." Savagery rips into his baritone, shredding its accent into irritation. Rossi settles his elbow on the back of the bench, propping his brow into the frame of its hand. "Anyway, I'm not MA. I'm Homicide. Which is why the entire Miller bullshit happened to begin with."
'Seems you must've done alright, despite the fact that Summers dealt with quite a bit of it.' Seans reassures, though the medium doesn't match the attempt within his smile. A slight shrug. 'You're involved with MA, it seems, so you'll probably end up there if you're willing. You were involved on Sabella Miller's case? I didn't know that.' And a sharp, searching glance finds its way to Rossi's eyes.
"Lucky me," says Chris with a sardonic twist of lips, shadowed gaze scything up from the clipboard to Sean's glance. "Yeah. Beston and me caught the call, initially. MA grabbed it from us once the witness statements pointed to a mutant. Ended up being a turf battle -- anyway, the Cap had us working on the vic angle, so I ended up being in interrogation with Lazzaro when Miller pulled her Tosca. What, you thought I got hit just because I'm an asshole?"
Sean is scribbling away as Rossi speaks, dropping the look to his clipboard. 'Unfortunate that MA and Homicide are forced to cross over, sometimes. It's not' Pen stabs a little into the paper at the word 'Tosca', but a rapid reassertment of control allows him to continue writing, slightly thinned lips his only real reaction. 'like you're not on the same side. Were the two known terrorists or anything? Members of any militant mutant-rights groups? I guess they thought they were out for revenge for what they no doubt perceived as being a murder. Children.' Exasperation is evident within the twitch of his cheek, the glitter of his eye. 'Idiot children.'
A sigh bleeds the air between them as Sean writes, though this time Chris at least gives him the courtesy of letting the pen finish its work. "Kids reading too many comic books," he admits, dropping his arm to straighten, shoulders and spine settling into the bench's curve. The sybarite's mouth firms as well, pressing to a fine, flat line. "Feds took over while I was out, and they're not leaking. Probably thought they'd score points with the Brotherhood, or had some kinda crush on Miller -- who the hell knows. She was a looker, for a psychopath."
'Yes, she was.' Simple words, delivered by white-knuckled fingers. Hunching a little over the clipboard, allowing the flop of hair to mask troubled eyes, Sean scribbles out of Rossi's sight for a few seconds. 'Never know with kids. Feds should find out quickly enough. Anyway, are you going to tell me why you asked me here, or shall we continue with the small talk about the Force? Not that I'm not enjoying it.' The beginnings of a wry chuckle rumble in Sean's chest, rapidly cut off as he realises. And yes, it sounded an awful lot healthier than previously. Clipboard is presented.
Chris cranes to read, grimaces, and scrubs at his face for a muffled, "Yeah. Shit. Sorry. Shit." And, for good measure, "Dammit. I dragged you all the way out here and I'm being a chickenshit. Look--" Rhetorical. Over the paused muzzle of his hand, pale green eyes slant at Sean, doleful for all their cynicism. "--I got this problem. Don't know if anyone can help me with it, but I figured, with your background--"
'Master Procrastinator Detective Rossi.' A vaguely amused smile sits under twinkling blue eyes, the tightening around his brow the only lasting impression of the previous conversation. 'Just ask. If I can help, I will. If not, I'll forget you ever asked. Deal?'
"Deal." Again the flicker of a grin, the gleaming edge of its chrysalis in eyes and wry baritone. Rossi lifts his chin and says baldly, "Think I might have a little trouble. With mutants. Fuck."
'What sort of trouble? You mean you don't like them, or you do, or there's some following you? Explain.' Quickly scrawled, offering as little a break in momentum as possible. Sean glances up to spot a reaction, showing teeth in his smile as he offers a single nod.
Harassed, Chris hunches his shoulders towards his ears, sloping to rest his elbows on his knees and drift his gaze elsewhere. The stray dog, for instance, meticulously marking his territory on a depressed shrub across the path. "Shit, I don't know. Three months ago I didn't know any. Now it's like the entire fucking city is crawling with them. Summers is a good guy, and there are others I'm fine with. Okay with. But -- goddammit."
Sean breaks into a full grin. 'Crawling? Didn't you know we're everywhere?' Shoulder shake in silent amusement, before the Irishman is forced to settle a more sober outlook onto the world, or at least Rossi. 'Fairly close-knit community, a lot of mutants. You meet one, you end up meeting many, most of which will know each other. It could just be Murphy playing hell with you. Give me some names?'
"I'm not giving you /names/," Rossi tells the indifferent dog, exasperation pinching his brow. "The hell do I know if they're out of the closet. Just because /I/ know -- wait. Doc Grey. She's public." A sideways glance pitches up from the clipboard back to Sean, darkened in the set face. "Suppose I should be relieved you're not calling me names or trying to deck me."
'Jean is an old friend of mine.' Sean notes, quiet scratching of biro on paper the only sound evident from him. 'Though I didn't know you knew her until this moment. Seems Murphy does have a game to play with us. No names from me; it's your choice what you think of us, and decking a cop is still fairly bad form, even in this city. Quite what was it you wanted to ask me? Do we have some sort of huge mutant conspiracy? No. Do a lot of us know each other? Yes. Do I know why you've suddenly found yourself in contact with a lot of mutants? No. Sorry if I'm answering the wrong questions.' The frowning concentration as he writes the lengthy speech finally allows him to tilt it up to show Rossi. Sean leans backwards into the bench, shaking his hand a little to try and persuade the faltering biro to last a little longer, eventually letting it drop to his lap and collecting his spare.
"'Mutant conspiracy,'" Chris reads aloud, blankly. "Great. There's a thought that's gonna haunt me. What, you guys got some kind of secret handshake? I'm starting to wonder. I figured a lot of you would know each other; that's the way it is. Big city, small communities. I get that. It's not them. You. Mutants. It's /me/. Fuck." The dark, Italian head drops into both hands, and shoulders quiver. Just a little. Black humor. "I sound like I'm breaking up with you. Gay. It'd kill Lazzaro not to be here to listen to this."
Sean's heads bobs an aggreement to community-talk, but the pen echoes the humour written in his eyes. 'MUCH more than a handshake. We have secret meetings where we plot to destroy the world. Relax. If you hated us that much, then you wouldn't be sitting here next to me, you'd be joining the Friends of Humanity. A mild mistrust and dislike born of the unknown (and admittedly that attack) is nothing that I'll blame you for. The way to beat it? Learn. Watch. Listen. Eventually realise that we'd all be better off if people just learnt to accept the differences.' An eyebrow belatedly raises high. Slow, calculating eyes drift over Rossi's face and chest, before dropping back to the clipboard. 'Breaking up? Now you've disappointed me. I'm sure Lazarro feels the same way you do about him.'
The tail end of a soundless laugh flares across the clipboard's review, and Chris drags himself erect to slouch again into the bench, hair unsettled to tickle his eyes. "Everybody's a comedian," he quips, stretching his legs long into the gravel. "You believe in this UN Love Thy Neighbor shit? Or you just pop it out for PR? Christ. No offense, man, but back in the real world you were a cop in, nobody's living a Coca Cola commercial. I can't do my fucking job if the /vic/ makes me go for my gun."
'I believe that there's no place for hatred of someone because of what they are. WHO they are, yes. Dickheads should be locked up.' Sharp point punctuates with a hard full stop, eyes drift to Rossi, and Sean's head drifts into a slow shake. 'Never said there was a commercial, or everyone should be loving each other, but the groundless hate is totally unnecessary, meaningless. If you're going to get irate about someone, then at least have a damn good reason for it.' Fingers rise to run through hair, the slightest exasperation touching his eyes and the deep breath drawn through nostrils.
"If all the dickheads in New York were locked up, it'd be an empty city," Rossi drawls with heavy cynicism, jaw tightening over the script. He bends his attention elsewhere -- the dog is gone, but passersby do for distraction -- and Chris follows a pair of joggers with an unfinished frown before adding tightly, "Who said anything about hate? Look. All I'm asking for is-- fuck. I don't know. Can you get me in?"
A soft snort of laughter punches from Sean's nose, a nod of agreement and dry smile partially shadowing an intently probing look. There's only a quick glance down as he writes 'Get you in where, or into what? Sorry if I've misread what you're saying.'
Rossi slouches still further, riding his vertebre into metal slats. "The community. Or something. Homicide's getting these cases--" Once more he breaks off, face bleak, profile etched in hard, sharp lines. "Third day back. It's got to be some kind of record, I swear to God."
'If there's anything I can help out with, I will.' Sean scrawls, offering up a friendly smile as he shifts in place, crossing ankle over knee to rest. 'I can introduce you to anyone who's willing, maybe even do a bit of hunting around myself if you can offer details, but I can't promise anything. A lot of mutants are nervous about cops. Records are good, prove you're dedicated.' Lips quirk up at one side, and blue eyes twinkle an amused yet concerned merriment. 'Explain some of those cases?'
Green eyes look askance. "Records?" However. Dry, Rossi points out, "I'm in Homicide, man. Extrapolate. If the vics were still living, they'd be MA's cases. How'd you whack out your voice, anyway?"
'I meant why they're of interest in terms of mutants. What sort of damage? Any writing nearby? And clues at all? Forensics?' There's a very lengthy pause, and Sean delivers a raised eyebrow. 'You capable of keep your mouth shut?'
"You can't ask me case details and then ask me that," Chris points out, though the Brooklyn accent frays in some amusement; he is a man of swift and mercurial moods, Detective Rossi. "Yeah, I can keep my mouth shut. You a poodle?"
'Interpol. Long time before I was a cop in NY. How'd you think they let a non-national become NYPD? After I left, worked for them again. Wrecked my voice on a mission for them; a very messy mission where I had to use my powers more powerfully than I ever have before and damaged my vocal chords. Hence the voice. Hence the return to NY for surgery and treatment. Interpol blew me off once they realised I was broken.' Sean's face and manner is expressionless, although the paper with that writing on is torn away, ready to be disposed of once Rossi has comprehended.
Rossi reads. Rossi comprehends. And, with a quizzical glance up at Sean, Rossi understands. "Assholes," he says at last over a slow blink, fingers steepling across his cheek and jaw. "Your file mentioned Interpol, but IA censored out most of it. 'Missions.' Christ. Whole different world. This surgery fixes your ... thing, you going back?"
Paper is carefully folded, placed in between flatly expressionless lips and chewed. 'Never going back. After killing in the region of 20 highle dangerous bioterrorists in one fell swoop, and levelling something like a city block, along with civilian injuries, I don't need or want to head in that direction ever again. Whole. Different. World. IA censored it because half of it was illegal, but needed doing. Now, what are these cases?' Swallowed, and the eyes that scan back up await the inevitable reaction, filled with something like pleading for acceptance.
"Shit," says Chris halfway through the narrative, even that jaded, street-wise cynic startled. "Your file didn't say anything about-- your voice gets back and you end up having to level a city block, man, Tactical Narco Team's probably got some suggestions on where to start. You ever think of coming back to the NYPD? Christ. Would you want to?" Speculation, calculation ticks over behind the pale gaze, skittering and connecting in thought.
'Slight mistake.' Sean writes, 'Leveling the city block is what screwed my voice.' There's a slow shake to his head at the question. 'That life isn't for me any more. I'm a teacher now, though I'm always willing to help out the NYPD if they really need me. Don't want to be under those same people that ditched me, and don't feel it's my place to deal with the dickheads any more.'
A brow arches for the last piece, warped humor making play across Rossi's expression. "Teacher. Schoolteacher? Your choice, man. Don't blame you, I guess. I would've figured once a cop, always a cop, but it's your life. Just means more dicks for the rest of us."
'If you want the dick, then I'm sure that Lazzaro guy can help you out.' Sean scribbles, sheer humour twinkling behind his eyes. 'Yes, teaching history and criminal law in a private school. But always a cop, which is why I've agreed to help you out on those cases you're avoiding talking about.' A reproving eyebrow raises high, as all potentially incriminating bits of paper are shredded, chewed and swallowed in fairly rapid succession.
...a process which Chris watches with open fascination. It is only after the last piece is torn, chewed, and swallowed that he wonders with bland interest, "You got a fiber problem, man? A little too much grease in Europe? Because if you're just getting rid of paper, I got a /lighter/--" He produces it in all innocence, helpful man, and flicks it back to prove the spurt of flame. "--and the cases, well. Not much to talk about. Just bodies. Five dead mutants in the three weeks I was gone. Unrelated to each other. Five year old kid right before I got taken out. Community doesn't talk to cops."
The return look is equally featureless, though there's a sardonic eyebrow involved. 'Thank you for the offer earlier. I don't smoke, you see.' And then it sinks in. In a much healthier voice, almost devoid of that rasping rattle, he mutters a surprised "Shit." before oviously remembering himself. 'FIVE dead mutants, and I didn't know? I'll have a look around, maybe ask a few friends to help me out if I need it. Friends of Humanity must be suspected? Although they're not stupid enough to kill a five year old. I'll speak to people.'
"It's not exactly been publicized," Rossi says with a sigh, hunkering down into his bench again. Flick, goes the lighter. (Spoof, goes the flame.) "Keep it quiet, would you? Just a freak thing. They're not linked -- almost positive they're not linked, actually. Two domestic violence. One body fished out of the river. Might have been suicide. One that might've been collateral in a drug thing. Who knows what the hell was up with the last one. One of them was registered, or we wouldn't even have known she was a mutant, and finding /that/ out was pure stupid luck, too."
'According to Jean, there are ~3000 mutants in the US. 5 deaths in 3 weeks is a /lot/, enough to be treated suspiciously even if they wouldn't be otherwise. Consider the possibility of outside interference, or anything.' The rapid rate of writing is making it slightly less legible, as Sean's mind works overtime, and an intent, cop-like expression rushes onto his features, hunching shoulders protecting the writing from anyone else's view. 'I'll be quiet about what I look for, and I'll tell you everything I find, though names may have to be left out if it's particularly paranoid people.'
Chris slouches. "Three thousand? Swear to God, they're all in New York. Except maybe in LA," he amends, casting the bread of morose humor onto the waters. "You could get away with being a visible mutant out there. Who the hell'd notice? --Look around if you want, but I'm pretty sure it's just the dice rolling snake-eyes this past month." Green eyes glint. "Thought you were retired from the cop business, man."
There is a quick smile and single snort of laughter. '3000, and a high concentration in this city. But there are visible mutants, mutants so visible no-one would dare touch them. Jean, Warren Worthington, even me to an extent. I'll look, but not until I can speak again.' A wry smile twists his lips, and a humoured glance up to Rossi speaks more than one page. 'I am retired. Never again will I work for the State. But that doesn't stop me helping out a friend occasionally, does it?
"Friend." Humor meets humor, twisted and bent. "Wouldn't call the NYPD a friend. Abusive ex who still has the keys to your apartment, maybe. --I should get going," Chris realizes, tugging his sleeve back to check the leather-banded watch beneath. "Shit. I still got work to do before the shift ends. Stuck behind a desk until the docs finish clearing me. I give it a week before I blow my phone away."
'And here was me hoping you'd consider yourself to be my closest chum.' Sean scribbles rapidly, 'But leave; abandon the poor, sick man to his misery. Hope you have fun flying that desk.' And the grin that is beamed towards Rossi would suggest the exact opposite. In a good-naured way, of course. The Irishman springs up from his seat, unfolding to his full six feet, and thrusts a farewell hand out. "Get well soon, and I'll be in touch." is whispered.
The other man grins, sweeping his gaze across the clipboard as he stands himself. Hand meets hand and clasps in a brief, firm shake: calluses, ink-stains and all. "You too," Chris says, self-deprecating over his own healing wounds. "Get your mojo back, and then we'll talk. You're not bad, for an 'Irish fathead who accidentally ended up a good cop.'" The native baritone pitches into Beston's gravel growl, picked clean of Brooklyn's leavenings to be replaced by Chicago's burr. "--That school you're teaching at. It the one out in Westchester?"
And now Sean is forced to scribble again. 'Irish fathead mojo beats Yank moNO any time. But that sounds about right from that asshat(?)' Eyebrow quirks. 'Yes, the one where Jean used to teach. Xavier's. Maybe sometime I'll get you an invite up for a tour, but the headmaster doesn't always like people coming up. Now shoo to work.' And a dismissive wave of a hand.
"Mutant conspiracy," Chris tosses over his shoulder, plugging his hands into his pockets to amble up the path. "Tell Summers I'm waiting on his poodle ass when he gets better. --Later, man." And that is that.
Only a nod speaks the 'Will do.' Sean raises a hand in farewell, before turning to begin his probably eventful journey home. Most cab drivers don't speak Clipboardese.
[Log ends]
Beston turned out to be the one who made me call Cassidy. Told him I was thinking about it. He remembered the guy. Before my time at the precinct, back when I was with the two-nine. 'Irish fathead' is what he called him first. 'Good cop' is what he said second. Can count on my hands the number of people he's said that about. Cassidy's likeable, I'll give him that. School teacher. Hah. If I were a student at that Xavier place ... well, for one thing, the nuns would've been relieved. Probably wouldn't have made to puberty. Would've gotten my nuts fried off by my English teacher before second period.
Beston and Yamaguchi called in backup today on an MS-13 arrest. Me, I'm stuck behind this damn desk chasing money trails on a white collar motive. Caught Spiccati learning how to play chess from some homeless guy in holding. Asshole still can't find his left shoe. He's convinced Ken's got it.
Really have to call Doc Grey. Dammit. I'm picking up the phone right now.
Phone message from Chris Rossi to Dr. Jean Grey.
"Hey, Doc. It's Chris Rossi. Listen, I got something to ask you about Summers. Kind of hoping you'll be able to answer a question I got. Mind giving me a call back when you got a chance? Call me on my cell, not at the precinct. Thanks, Doc."
---
Central Park South
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, the area here seems no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak, the skyline of New York can be seen looming. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green here, as do the bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
The park is but a hop, skip, and jump away from the precinct, and so it is not a rare thing to find officers here on their breaks: smoking, sauntering, wiling away the madness of the Job -- because for New York's Finest there is only one meaning of the word -- in a refuge of beauty. Man proposes, God disposes. Chris Rossi, sprawled and slouched on a solitary, shaded bench, observes it with a dispassionate eye. Early autumn is a ways yet from defeating summer's heat and humidity, and he has conceded to the latter, loosening his tie and opening his thin blue suit coat to the mercy of a breeze.
The Job is always there, even for those who no longer partake in the official side of things. Subtly watchful eyes take in the park as Sean Casidy saunters through it, a clipboard born in one hand with a pair of biros clipped on it. Blessedly able to wear casual clothing, a light polo shirt and beige slacks make up the Irishman's ensemble. Spotting the man he is to meet from a distance away, he approaches bearing a friendly smile, and couples it with a nod as he gets close. No words, but the obligatory hand comes out for shaking.
A shadow twitches across Chris's face at recognition of the other man; he rises to meet him, reluctance binding his body's ease to a stiffer, less conforming rigidity. "Cassidy," Rossi greets, clasping Sean's hand in his own. And: "Sorry, man. I dragged you all the way out here and now I've got you here, I'm thinking -- well, shit. Doesn't matter. Too late now. Thanks. For coming." Awkward gratitude, though sincere enough beneath the uncertainty.
Intrigue and a momentary frown of interest cross the tilted features, even as the clipboard is thrust forward, a fairly lengthy essay bound on it. "Hi. Read it." is whispered as loudly as Sean dares, and the blurb on the board becomes evident. 'To begin, I should explain this. Recent surgery on my throat; not allowed to speak at the moment. Clipboard is for communication. Nice to see you, though.' Despite the fact that it's one he made earlier. Rapid scribbling takes over as he turns the clipboard back to face him. 'No worries about me coming; it's a pleasure to be out and about. Too late?'
Rossi's frown flicks across the clipboard, skimming, and deepens further still for a blink back up. "Christ," says Chris, guilt surfacing under the dark baritone. A hand rakes through hair in automatic, restless reaction, and he clarifies, "Too late to back out of it now, I meant. Damn. If I'd realized, I wouldn't have--" He breaks off, gaze turning inward, abstracted into calculation. "--Isn't that your, uh, power? The whole voice thing. I read your file."
A quick shake of Sean's head doesn't detract from the reassuring smile, before the clipboard again receives his attention, an occasional glance up designed to hint at the proximity of completion. 'Don't worry. It's a blessing to get away from the school and a load of sympathetic kids. But yes, that is my particular element; and the reason I received the finest medical care in the country. Because it's very important to me that it works again. Anything interesting in my file? Or, failing that, what was this question you're failing to back out of now?' Even as the clipboard is turned back around, the spare hand flickers out to gesture towards the bench with a questioning expression, followed by the red haired man taking his seat.
The pause Rossi takes to reclaim his own long- and loose-limbed drape across the bench is hardly necessary from a physical sense. "School," he echoes on the other end of it, when he is couched and settled and returned to blank-eyed perusal of the path. "Your file was pretty much what you'd expect. IA had it scrubbed so hard you could see your hands through the paper. Doesn't matter. Beston says you're a good cop, and I can count on my fingers the number of times he's said /that/."
'What do you expect from IA? I must've been a PR nightmare for them.' And a little self-satisfied smirk twtiches at Sean's lips for that. 'Beston is a good lad, and tell him thank you. I did my best when I was there. Has he managed to say the same thing about you yet, or do you still have 'little bitch' status, or whatever it is he calls people now? From what I've seen and heard, you've done well, despite what's happened.' Handover of clipboard. Blue eyes drift up to Rossi's face to gauge a reaction to the attempt at humour, and the probing compliment.
"You heard about that?" Resignation and rue annoy the question, nudging it towards self-mockery. Despite his mood, the whisper of a grin lightens Rossi's expression, clipping his mouth towards an angle and curl. "Figures. It's been a fucking bad month. Not the worst, but August was pretty up there. Don't know what Beston calls me to other people. Asshat." There is arrogance and affection in the last, culled from streets and assurance, and Chris drifts a glance askance to note, "He used to call you 'little bitch'?"
'Once, he tried. Didn't seem to appreciate a good old Irish abuse-fest.' Sean writes, breaking into a broad smile. 'Horrible month that almost makes me wish I was back on the Force. Only almost, though. Asshat? Suits him. Good job on collaring those two idiot teenagers, by the way.' Somehow the final words drip with an annoyance, though it's more from the downcast brow and the thin, straight line of lips. 'If you're working MA, you're bound to have a busy life, even if it's only with those who're being accused of untruths.
Collaring. Head canted to read the words as they're scrawled, Chris snorts when that particular one takes shape. "Not our collar. Nearly got ourselves flattened by a car, not to mention the goddamn lightning. Fucking useless." Savagery rips into his baritone, shredding its accent into irritation. Rossi settles his elbow on the back of the bench, propping his brow into the frame of its hand. "Anyway, I'm not MA. I'm Homicide. Which is why the entire Miller bullshit happened to begin with."
'Seems you must've done alright, despite the fact that Summers dealt with quite a bit of it.' Seans reassures, though the medium doesn't match the attempt within his smile. A slight shrug. 'You're involved with MA, it seems, so you'll probably end up there if you're willing. You were involved on Sabella Miller's case? I didn't know that.' And a sharp, searching glance finds its way to Rossi's eyes.
"Lucky me," says Chris with a sardonic twist of lips, shadowed gaze scything up from the clipboard to Sean's glance. "Yeah. Beston and me caught the call, initially. MA grabbed it from us once the witness statements pointed to a mutant. Ended up being a turf battle -- anyway, the Cap had us working on the vic angle, so I ended up being in interrogation with Lazzaro when Miller pulled her Tosca. What, you thought I got hit just because I'm an asshole?"
Sean is scribbling away as Rossi speaks, dropping the look to his clipboard. 'Unfortunate that MA and Homicide are forced to cross over, sometimes. It's not' Pen stabs a little into the paper at the word 'Tosca', but a rapid reassertment of control allows him to continue writing, slightly thinned lips his only real reaction. 'like you're not on the same side. Were the two known terrorists or anything? Members of any militant mutant-rights groups? I guess they thought they were out for revenge for what they no doubt perceived as being a murder. Children.' Exasperation is evident within the twitch of his cheek, the glitter of his eye. 'Idiot children.'
A sigh bleeds the air between them as Sean writes, though this time Chris at least gives him the courtesy of letting the pen finish its work. "Kids reading too many comic books," he admits, dropping his arm to straighten, shoulders and spine settling into the bench's curve. The sybarite's mouth firms as well, pressing to a fine, flat line. "Feds took over while I was out, and they're not leaking. Probably thought they'd score points with the Brotherhood, or had some kinda crush on Miller -- who the hell knows. She was a looker, for a psychopath."
'Yes, she was.' Simple words, delivered by white-knuckled fingers. Hunching a little over the clipboard, allowing the flop of hair to mask troubled eyes, Sean scribbles out of Rossi's sight for a few seconds. 'Never know with kids. Feds should find out quickly enough. Anyway, are you going to tell me why you asked me here, or shall we continue with the small talk about the Force? Not that I'm not enjoying it.' The beginnings of a wry chuckle rumble in Sean's chest, rapidly cut off as he realises. And yes, it sounded an awful lot healthier than previously. Clipboard is presented.
Chris cranes to read, grimaces, and scrubs at his face for a muffled, "Yeah. Shit. Sorry. Shit." And, for good measure, "Dammit. I dragged you all the way out here and I'm being a chickenshit. Look--" Rhetorical. Over the paused muzzle of his hand, pale green eyes slant at Sean, doleful for all their cynicism. "--I got this problem. Don't know if anyone can help me with it, but I figured, with your background--"
'Master Procrastinator Detective Rossi.' A vaguely amused smile sits under twinkling blue eyes, the tightening around his brow the only lasting impression of the previous conversation. 'Just ask. If I can help, I will. If not, I'll forget you ever asked. Deal?'
"Deal." Again the flicker of a grin, the gleaming edge of its chrysalis in eyes and wry baritone. Rossi lifts his chin and says baldly, "Think I might have a little trouble. With mutants. Fuck."
'What sort of trouble? You mean you don't like them, or you do, or there's some following you? Explain.' Quickly scrawled, offering as little a break in momentum as possible. Sean glances up to spot a reaction, showing teeth in his smile as he offers a single nod.
Harassed, Chris hunches his shoulders towards his ears, sloping to rest his elbows on his knees and drift his gaze elsewhere. The stray dog, for instance, meticulously marking his territory on a depressed shrub across the path. "Shit, I don't know. Three months ago I didn't know any. Now it's like the entire fucking city is crawling with them. Summers is a good guy, and there are others I'm fine with. Okay with. But -- goddammit."
Sean breaks into a full grin. 'Crawling? Didn't you know we're everywhere?' Shoulder shake in silent amusement, before the Irishman is forced to settle a more sober outlook onto the world, or at least Rossi. 'Fairly close-knit community, a lot of mutants. You meet one, you end up meeting many, most of which will know each other. It could just be Murphy playing hell with you. Give me some names?'
"I'm not giving you /names/," Rossi tells the indifferent dog, exasperation pinching his brow. "The hell do I know if they're out of the closet. Just because /I/ know -- wait. Doc Grey. She's public." A sideways glance pitches up from the clipboard back to Sean, darkened in the set face. "Suppose I should be relieved you're not calling me names or trying to deck me."
'Jean is an old friend of mine.' Sean notes, quiet scratching of biro on paper the only sound evident from him. 'Though I didn't know you knew her until this moment. Seems Murphy does have a game to play with us. No names from me; it's your choice what you think of us, and decking a cop is still fairly bad form, even in this city. Quite what was it you wanted to ask me? Do we have some sort of huge mutant conspiracy? No. Do a lot of us know each other? Yes. Do I know why you've suddenly found yourself in contact with a lot of mutants? No. Sorry if I'm answering the wrong questions.' The frowning concentration as he writes the lengthy speech finally allows him to tilt it up to show Rossi. Sean leans backwards into the bench, shaking his hand a little to try and persuade the faltering biro to last a little longer, eventually letting it drop to his lap and collecting his spare.
"'Mutant conspiracy,'" Chris reads aloud, blankly. "Great. There's a thought that's gonna haunt me. What, you guys got some kind of secret handshake? I'm starting to wonder. I figured a lot of you would know each other; that's the way it is. Big city, small communities. I get that. It's not them. You. Mutants. It's /me/. Fuck." The dark, Italian head drops into both hands, and shoulders quiver. Just a little. Black humor. "I sound like I'm breaking up with you. Gay. It'd kill Lazzaro not to be here to listen to this."
Sean's heads bobs an aggreement to community-talk, but the pen echoes the humour written in his eyes. 'MUCH more than a handshake. We have secret meetings where we plot to destroy the world. Relax. If you hated us that much, then you wouldn't be sitting here next to me, you'd be joining the Friends of Humanity. A mild mistrust and dislike born of the unknown (and admittedly that attack) is nothing that I'll blame you for. The way to beat it? Learn. Watch. Listen. Eventually realise that we'd all be better off if people just learnt to accept the differences.' An eyebrow belatedly raises high. Slow, calculating eyes drift over Rossi's face and chest, before dropping back to the clipboard. 'Breaking up? Now you've disappointed me. I'm sure Lazarro feels the same way you do about him.'
The tail end of a soundless laugh flares across the clipboard's review, and Chris drags himself erect to slouch again into the bench, hair unsettled to tickle his eyes. "Everybody's a comedian," he quips, stretching his legs long into the gravel. "You believe in this UN Love Thy Neighbor shit? Or you just pop it out for PR? Christ. No offense, man, but back in the real world you were a cop in, nobody's living a Coca Cola commercial. I can't do my fucking job if the /vic/ makes me go for my gun."
'I believe that there's no place for hatred of someone because of what they are. WHO they are, yes. Dickheads should be locked up.' Sharp point punctuates with a hard full stop, eyes drift to Rossi, and Sean's head drifts into a slow shake. 'Never said there was a commercial, or everyone should be loving each other, but the groundless hate is totally unnecessary, meaningless. If you're going to get irate about someone, then at least have a damn good reason for it.' Fingers rise to run through hair, the slightest exasperation touching his eyes and the deep breath drawn through nostrils.
"If all the dickheads in New York were locked up, it'd be an empty city," Rossi drawls with heavy cynicism, jaw tightening over the script. He bends his attention elsewhere -- the dog is gone, but passersby do for distraction -- and Chris follows a pair of joggers with an unfinished frown before adding tightly, "Who said anything about hate? Look. All I'm asking for is-- fuck. I don't know. Can you get me in?"
A soft snort of laughter punches from Sean's nose, a nod of agreement and dry smile partially shadowing an intently probing look. There's only a quick glance down as he writes 'Get you in where, or into what? Sorry if I've misread what you're saying.'
Rossi slouches still further, riding his vertebre into metal slats. "The community. Or something. Homicide's getting these cases--" Once more he breaks off, face bleak, profile etched in hard, sharp lines. "Third day back. It's got to be some kind of record, I swear to God."
'If there's anything I can help out with, I will.' Sean scrawls, offering up a friendly smile as he shifts in place, crossing ankle over knee to rest. 'I can introduce you to anyone who's willing, maybe even do a bit of hunting around myself if you can offer details, but I can't promise anything. A lot of mutants are nervous about cops. Records are good, prove you're dedicated.' Lips quirk up at one side, and blue eyes twinkle an amused yet concerned merriment. 'Explain some of those cases?'
Green eyes look askance. "Records?" However. Dry, Rossi points out, "I'm in Homicide, man. Extrapolate. If the vics were still living, they'd be MA's cases. How'd you whack out your voice, anyway?"
'I meant why they're of interest in terms of mutants. What sort of damage? Any writing nearby? And clues at all? Forensics?' There's a very lengthy pause, and Sean delivers a raised eyebrow. 'You capable of keep your mouth shut?'
"You can't ask me case details and then ask me that," Chris points out, though the Brooklyn accent frays in some amusement; he is a man of swift and mercurial moods, Detective Rossi. "Yeah, I can keep my mouth shut. You a poodle?"
'Interpol. Long time before I was a cop in NY. How'd you think they let a non-national become NYPD? After I left, worked for them again. Wrecked my voice on a mission for them; a very messy mission where I had to use my powers more powerfully than I ever have before and damaged my vocal chords. Hence the voice. Hence the return to NY for surgery and treatment. Interpol blew me off once they realised I was broken.' Sean's face and manner is expressionless, although the paper with that writing on is torn away, ready to be disposed of once Rossi has comprehended.
Rossi reads. Rossi comprehends. And, with a quizzical glance up at Sean, Rossi understands. "Assholes," he says at last over a slow blink, fingers steepling across his cheek and jaw. "Your file mentioned Interpol, but IA censored out most of it. 'Missions.' Christ. Whole different world. This surgery fixes your ... thing, you going back?"
Paper is carefully folded, placed in between flatly expressionless lips and chewed. 'Never going back. After killing in the region of 20 highle dangerous bioterrorists in one fell swoop, and levelling something like a city block, along with civilian injuries, I don't need or want to head in that direction ever again. Whole. Different. World. IA censored it because half of it was illegal, but needed doing. Now, what are these cases?' Swallowed, and the eyes that scan back up await the inevitable reaction, filled with something like pleading for acceptance.
"Shit," says Chris halfway through the narrative, even that jaded, street-wise cynic startled. "Your file didn't say anything about-- your voice gets back and you end up having to level a city block, man, Tactical Narco Team's probably got some suggestions on where to start. You ever think of coming back to the NYPD? Christ. Would you want to?" Speculation, calculation ticks over behind the pale gaze, skittering and connecting in thought.
'Slight mistake.' Sean writes, 'Leveling the city block is what screwed my voice.' There's a slow shake to his head at the question. 'That life isn't for me any more. I'm a teacher now, though I'm always willing to help out the NYPD if they really need me. Don't want to be under those same people that ditched me, and don't feel it's my place to deal with the dickheads any more.'
A brow arches for the last piece, warped humor making play across Rossi's expression. "Teacher. Schoolteacher? Your choice, man. Don't blame you, I guess. I would've figured once a cop, always a cop, but it's your life. Just means more dicks for the rest of us."
'If you want the dick, then I'm sure that Lazzaro guy can help you out.' Sean scribbles, sheer humour twinkling behind his eyes. 'Yes, teaching history and criminal law in a private school. But always a cop, which is why I've agreed to help you out on those cases you're avoiding talking about.' A reproving eyebrow raises high, as all potentially incriminating bits of paper are shredded, chewed and swallowed in fairly rapid succession.
...a process which Chris watches with open fascination. It is only after the last piece is torn, chewed, and swallowed that he wonders with bland interest, "You got a fiber problem, man? A little too much grease in Europe? Because if you're just getting rid of paper, I got a /lighter/--" He produces it in all innocence, helpful man, and flicks it back to prove the spurt of flame. "--and the cases, well. Not much to talk about. Just bodies. Five dead mutants in the three weeks I was gone. Unrelated to each other. Five year old kid right before I got taken out. Community doesn't talk to cops."
The return look is equally featureless, though there's a sardonic eyebrow involved. 'Thank you for the offer earlier. I don't smoke, you see.' And then it sinks in. In a much healthier voice, almost devoid of that rasping rattle, he mutters a surprised "Shit." before oviously remembering himself. 'FIVE dead mutants, and I didn't know? I'll have a look around, maybe ask a few friends to help me out if I need it. Friends of Humanity must be suspected? Although they're not stupid enough to kill a five year old. I'll speak to people.'
"It's not exactly been publicized," Rossi says with a sigh, hunkering down into his bench again. Flick, goes the lighter. (Spoof, goes the flame.) "Keep it quiet, would you? Just a freak thing. They're not linked -- almost positive they're not linked, actually. Two domestic violence. One body fished out of the river. Might have been suicide. One that might've been collateral in a drug thing. Who knows what the hell was up with the last one. One of them was registered, or we wouldn't even have known she was a mutant, and finding /that/ out was pure stupid luck, too."
'According to Jean, there are ~3000 mutants in the US. 5 deaths in 3 weeks is a /lot/, enough to be treated suspiciously even if they wouldn't be otherwise. Consider the possibility of outside interference, or anything.' The rapid rate of writing is making it slightly less legible, as Sean's mind works overtime, and an intent, cop-like expression rushes onto his features, hunching shoulders protecting the writing from anyone else's view. 'I'll be quiet about what I look for, and I'll tell you everything I find, though names may have to be left out if it's particularly paranoid people.'
Chris slouches. "Three thousand? Swear to God, they're all in New York. Except maybe in LA," he amends, casting the bread of morose humor onto the waters. "You could get away with being a visible mutant out there. Who the hell'd notice? --Look around if you want, but I'm pretty sure it's just the dice rolling snake-eyes this past month." Green eyes glint. "Thought you were retired from the cop business, man."
There is a quick smile and single snort of laughter. '3000, and a high concentration in this city. But there are visible mutants, mutants so visible no-one would dare touch them. Jean, Warren Worthington, even me to an extent. I'll look, but not until I can speak again.' A wry smile twists his lips, and a humoured glance up to Rossi speaks more than one page. 'I am retired. Never again will I work for the State. But that doesn't stop me helping out a friend occasionally, does it?
"Friend." Humor meets humor, twisted and bent. "Wouldn't call the NYPD a friend. Abusive ex who still has the keys to your apartment, maybe. --I should get going," Chris realizes, tugging his sleeve back to check the leather-banded watch beneath. "Shit. I still got work to do before the shift ends. Stuck behind a desk until the docs finish clearing me. I give it a week before I blow my phone away."
'And here was me hoping you'd consider yourself to be my closest chum.' Sean scribbles rapidly, 'But leave; abandon the poor, sick man to his misery. Hope you have fun flying that desk.' And the grin that is beamed towards Rossi would suggest the exact opposite. In a good-naured way, of course. The Irishman springs up from his seat, unfolding to his full six feet, and thrusts a farewell hand out. "Get well soon, and I'll be in touch." is whispered.
The other man grins, sweeping his gaze across the clipboard as he stands himself. Hand meets hand and clasps in a brief, firm shake: calluses, ink-stains and all. "You too," Chris says, self-deprecating over his own healing wounds. "Get your mojo back, and then we'll talk. You're not bad, for an 'Irish fathead who accidentally ended up a good cop.'" The native baritone pitches into Beston's gravel growl, picked clean of Brooklyn's leavenings to be replaced by Chicago's burr. "--That school you're teaching at. It the one out in Westchester?"
And now Sean is forced to scribble again. 'Irish fathead mojo beats Yank moNO any time. But that sounds about right from that asshat(?)' Eyebrow quirks. 'Yes, the one where Jean used to teach. Xavier's. Maybe sometime I'll get you an invite up for a tour, but the headmaster doesn't always like people coming up. Now shoo to work.' And a dismissive wave of a hand.
"Mutant conspiracy," Chris tosses over his shoulder, plugging his hands into his pockets to amble up the path. "Tell Summers I'm waiting on his poodle ass when he gets better. --Later, man." And that is that.
Only a nod speaks the 'Will do.' Sean raises a hand in farewell, before turning to begin his probably eventful journey home. Most cab drivers don't speak Clipboardese.
[Log ends]