Two for two
Back on the active duty roster with a vengeance. Crashed a couple of hours last night. Doc's office called, wanting to reschedule. Got them to bump it to today. Raced into the city, got there in the nick of time. Got cleared.
Headed to the precinct to start the shift. Was there just long enough to get cleared by the Captain, only to get caught by Ketzinger on a call.
Cassidy. So now what? I'm too tired to think straight. One thing's for damn sure. I'm going to straighten out Alyssa if I have to beat her. Better bent than dead. Meanwhile, Cassidy's source says the Brotherhood's splintering and taking up shop in New York. Christ. Give me a double homicide any day. If I find the guy who cursed me with an interesting life, I'm going to shoot him through the head with a nail gun.
---
With the sounds of sirens approaching, Shakespeare garden is now remarkably still. From a distance, onlookers are still watching and intrigued about what is to happen. One single figure sits, hands stretched out behind him to lean on, and a scowl etched firmly across his features. Having got rid of Averillix to be dealt with later, the garden still looks out of sorts. A wall of thorny roses rises not far from Sean's position. Sitting next to him is a keyboard, attached by a wire to a PDA clipped at his waist. Absently, he brings one hand from behind him to rub at his throat.
The precinct is not /so/ far away, and the circuitous routes taken by pedestrians are not those of the NYPD. It is, oddly, mounted uniforms who appear first, galloping down the paths taken by fleeing spectators; blue-clad knights to the rescue, though the rasp of radios has little to do with any Arthurian saga. They pass in a rumble of hoofbeats, drawing up in surprise at the wall of roses. Men on foot next, uniformed and armed, trailed by willing witnesses ("/Glowy/ guy, and this /giant/--") And last, but not least: the detectives. Chris Rossi, a hand thrust in his pants pocket, the other free for use, like that cocked and ready tongue.
The brush of knuckles over his bald scalp above clustered black curls, the other hand braced splay-fingered at the hip over his belt, a snorted gust of air escapes through the nose and lips of stocky, bearded Detective Toby Ketzinger, NYPD. "One of these days I'm just going to assume," he grunts, after receiving a hasty, breathy and highly editorialized account from a witness, "that /I've/ gone crazy."
At the first sign of incoming horses, Sean shoves the keyboard back into his jacket pocket, and slowly, surely, clambers to his feet, arms rising outwards in a gesture of surrender. There he stands, and he waits.
Uniforms disperse in that time-honored tradition: securing the scene. Witnesses struggle with more harassed police to point accusing fingers, reckless of self-preservation; thus it is towards Sean that hard eyes turn, the loci for intersecting paths and hands resting casually (oh, so casually) on guns. "Sir," begins one greying female uniform--
"How big a leap is that?" Chris Rossi wants to know, pausing long enough for Ketzinger, his own coat casually flipped back over his gun's jut. "We talking believing the DA? Or we talking believing in the tooth fairy? --Hold up, Horschack. I know this guy. Cassidy." The detective offers Sean a smile, the green eyes hard and cold above the twist of mouth. "You ripping up my city?"
"Short leap," acknowledges Ketzinger with a snort, the furrow of heavy brows into a scowl that does not entirely deny the possibility of amusement. "No ropes." The harassed look in brown eyes as they focus, blearily, on Rossi's acquaintance Cassidy, suggest - bland and dark-edged - that it's been a long day. And then there's him.
"A short enough leap fer me." Sean notes calmly, before offering a nod of greeting towards his acquaintance. "Rossi. I think the technical term is 'failin' ta perform a citizen's arrest on a terrorist.'" A slow blink is performed.
Rossi's smile flattens, spare and sere against the tanned face. "Yeah?" he says, deceptively casual; Horschack's partner, lean and leonine, exchanges glances with the woman before stepping forward to begin an efficient patdown. "So tell me a story, because I been hearing some pretty wild shit on the way here. --Toby Ketzinger, Sean Cassidy. One of our guys, once upon a time."
The left palm flies up from its rest near suit-coat's pockets to rub exasperation away from the right eye; the other eye's bleak stare is measured entirely upon Cassidy. "/Failure/ to perform --" Ursine baritone cuts off into a wordless noise of displeasure. "Hi," is provided with a nod, the glowering notes reduced swiftly with the receipt of new information. "How'd you identify?"
"Identified one o' the Brotherhood o' mutants." Sean begins, indulging in a quick glance down to the patter. The only things to be revealed are his PDA and keyboard, a wallet and a set of keys. "He didn' want ta come quietly, so I took 'im down wi' me powers. 'Is friend was tougher, an' me throat gave out on me, so they got away, after,-" A nod towards the wall of roses, "-That got in me way. Identified via suspicion due ta connection wi' another person, an' then conversation." And thus ends his speech, with a somewhat wan smile.
Chris's jaw tightens, something leaping to sharp-edged attention behind his expression. "/Fuck/. That's twice in two days. --Which one did you identify?" he asks over the production of a notepad, the pen a bare half-step behind. "What's his name? And who's this other person?"
"He's called Brendan. May be goin' by the name o' Danny." Sean replies, reeling off a rapid description. "The other one, the big 'un, I'm no' sure who 'e is." But a description is given nonetheless. The scowl formed on his brow deepens, digging a deep furrow, and the line of his mouth tightens, becoming knife-edge straight.
The pen hisses in its scrawl across paper, steered in a sprawling, generous hand that eats up two pages before the description is finished. "You'll have to come by the station and talk to a sketch artist," Rossi notes, clinical over the obvious. "This Brendan that 'ghost' guy our witnesses are talking about?"
The Irishman tips his head into a quick nod. "O' course, an' happily." Level tone stretches a little, as one of the outstretched arms comes back in to rub at his throat again. "Yeah. Looked like 'e was goin' insubstantial or somethin'. Don' know what 'is powers are overall, though. I'll be needin' ta speak ta me doc at some point soon, though." A bitter admission, scored with harshly moderated anger.
"I'd say it's pretty stupid to go after Brotherhood if you don't know what you're going up against," says Rossi dryly, turning his own gaze elsewhere; green drifts to investigate the rosebush, chilling marginally behind the sink of eyelids. "Funny," he says, suddenly mild. "I don't remember the gardeners planting anything there."
Sean stiffens somewhat, hard muscles tensing within his legs, and the anger rears it's ugly head as he snaps, "I coulda handled 'em wi'out a problem, if it wasn' fer me throat an' some outside interference." His head jerks towards the rosebush. "But that's somethin' I'll be dealin' wi' meself."
Chris turns his attention back to Sean. For all the slouch of body and settled face, reciprocal, answering rage broods behind the pale eyes, reaching with padded paws to claw through baritone. "Not by yourself, buddy. --Horschack, you and Pinner mind seeing if any of these damn tourists got pictures?" Dismissal is obvious, and the female officer levels a look at Rossi before moving away without comment. Relative privacy is theirs: the two detectives and Cassidy. "Seems to me I've seen Mother Nature's work before."
Information absorbed in relative quiet, snorts and wordless grunts offered throughout Cassidy's report wherever Toby deemed them appropriate; now he shifts, drawn face aiming heavy-browed interest at his fellow detective. "Yeah?"
"Ye seem ta have forgotten what me last job was, Rossi, an' quite what it is I do." Forced calm settles uncomfortably over dark features. "Two little terrorist scumbags would be nothin' fer me, if I was at full capacity." A brow twitches, betraying surprise. "Oh yeah? Which Mother Nature's that? Jus' ta see if we're matchin' here."
"Green hair, silver eyes. French." Chris shows his teeth behind a grimace of lips that is not, by any stretch of the definition, a smile. "Not the brightest bulb on the marquee."
A passing cloud wholly uninvolved with the proceedings is fixed with Ketzinger's gloom-ridden glower. "French," he echoes, on the end of a snort, to which he also appends a growled, "Right. You know how I love the dim ones." The fingers of one hand lean against his temple, his thumb scratching at a bushy black eyebrow. He sniffs, a mildly inquisitve light in the brown eyes to accompany the beginnings of a quizzical forehead-crease, though whatever question he has for Rossi goes, for the moment, unspoken.
Sean tips his head into a nod. "Averillix. How'd ye think I spotted me perp in the first place?" Side to side his head moves, lips twisting into a wry grimace. "She thinks she's in love wi' 'im. Some sort o' danger fetish or somethin'. But keep yer mouth shut about that, fer I'll be usin' it ta catch the little bastard." Cold, hard defiance shines within his eyes.
The mouth presses tight and white, a fine, savage slash; under the old and well-used suit, muscles tighten, binding the lean frame to dormant, reined violence. Rossi is angry. "The /second/ in two days," he says again, for Toby's benefit. "I was at the other scene last night. --I should haul her ass into the station and throw away the fucking /key/, Cassidy."
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us from children and people in /love/," scowls Toby, the brace of arms folded to barricade his chest, bearded chin lowering. Ursine rumble is trotted out again as his dark glare is settled, with a certain democracy, on Rossi. "Lock 'em all up, damn the civil rights?" Edged in drollery, the if-onlys curl around the words, and he cants his beleaguered stare to Cassidy again. Brooklyn streets roll casual and bland over the edged baritone as he asks, "Catch? You baiting traps?"
"I'm aware o' the first." Sean grates, pearly whites digging against each other. "Believe me, after I've talked ta 'er, she'll prob'ly be hidin' in 'er room fer the next decade." Seething anger breaks free in a clenching of fists. "Followed 'er, 'cause I got a feelin', and coulda served up a nice terrorist patty fer ye. An' I'll thank ye not ta be a prick when it comes ta mutants."
"Fuck /mutants/," says Rossi, baritone rising to the crash and swell of throttled fury. "I'm talking about murderers and terrorists, and to /hell/ what their genes make them. Sweet Mary, Mother of God: what are you teaching these fucking children? She could have been--" The words bite off, castrated by the clench of teeth; on a long-legged, springy stride, Chris lurches into motion, bearing himself off for a moment's struggle with patience.
Dark brows furrow in confusion, blent to swift enough comprehension and a humorless snort. "Lovers. Mice. Cheese," grunts Ketzinger, as though the short-bit words serve as much clarification whatsoever. "Terrorist's a terrorist, fuck the DNA." Having thus rumbled much milder agreement to Rossi's rageful crescendo, the pithy philosopher sniffs again, glance canted after Chris with muted wonder as to whether he should follow and try and prevent the other detective from happening to anybody, before brown eyes slide heavy - not bothering to flush irritation from his gaze, however mild the tone as he speaks. "Do you have anything else for us, Mr. Cassidy?"
"I'm /tryin'/ ta teach 'em how not ta get themselves killed in the middle o' a damn park, Rossi." Sean states, jaw tight with barely suppressed fury. "There's no' much I can do about it if they're getting fucking horny over some random Brotherhood terrorist murdering dickhead, is there?" Ketzinger is the proud receiver of a quite, stoney glare, Cassidy's fists are jammed into pockets. "I'll find yer terrorist, an' I'll bring 'im ta ye trussed up an' beggin' ta be locked up. Apart from that, all I need is ta be asked."
A quick exploration of the scene's perimeter proves only marginally soothing to the bubble and acid of temper, but it suffices enough to restore Rossi to the semblance (at least) of composure. Sans casualties, he replaces himself as the third in their trio, fists thrust stiff-armed into abused pockets. "They should be locked up in convents until they're thirty," he grits, green eyes brilliant. "How close is your voice to being fixed?"
Ketzinger eyes Casssidy for a stretching silent moment, measuring, contemplating. Rossi's return is greeted with nothing more than a glance arms loosed from their barricade to allow one hand to brush against his chin, the dull gleam of gold on his ring finger stark incongruity against the dark beard.
Sean somehow manipulates his lips into a bitterly wry smile. "Thirty five, minimum. An' we're lookin' at another week or so, 'fore I'm prop'ly sorted, I think. Maybe two. Why? Ye need some experienced backup?" Sparkling blue, cold and relatively expressionless, level on each detective in turn.
"Two in two days," reminds Rossi, adding on another jangled note of savagery, "Feds are going to be crawling up our asses. Brotherhood's been quiet since that damn prison breakout, so what gives?" The hands safely stored in pockets reappear, wrenched free by Italian gestures: swift, sweeping eloquence. "You realize nobody's died yet? I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Do I look like an expert on the Brotherhood?" Sean asks, eyes suddenly wary. He nods at the last, lids drooping down for a second, as he takes time to inhale a long and deep breath. "The fact that no-one's died could mean any number o' things. Not the least o' which is that Magneto doesn' want ta kill at the moment."
Rossi ignores the latter. Instead, attention crouches at the former, curling in a predator's gleaming-eyed wait before the rabbit hole. "/Are/ you?"
A heavy look locks on Rossi's eyes. "What do /you/ think?" Sean stays static, muscles holding firm and knuckles whitening within pockets.
"I think that Mutantland's a pretty small community." Eyes slip askance to Toby, then refocus. "I think there's a lot you're not telling me, Cassidy."
"An' I think Jean's told ye ta talk ta Archer." Sean replies, blinking slowly. "Else I'd be telling ye a lot more."
Teeth show white. "Already did."
"Then what did 'e tell ye?"
"More than you're telling me," says Rossi, voice hard. "Most of the stuff I'd already figured out."
"Go on then." Sean replies, bland innocence trickling over his features. "'Less ye'd rather yer coleague didn' hear."
"Ketzinger," says Rossi, as abrupt in the dismissal of his colleague as he was with the uniforms: how to win friends and influence people, forsooth. In the slightly diminished circle then, he says in succinct, bite-sized pieces, "Mutants and humans at your school. Federal involvement. Training them to use their powers. And a ... group."
Obedient as a police dog: it is only a snort that prefaces Toby Ketzinger's hands-in-pockets shuffle away from the other two.
"Doesn' it make sense ta teach the kids ta control their abilities ta the best o' their ability?" Sean counters, fairly mildly. "An' what exactly do ye know about a group?" Probing questions, searching for the limits of Rossi's knowledge.
Eyes glitter. "Teaching them to /fight/?" asks Rossi, sweet as curdled milk. "And the group I figured for myself. Summers. The weather girl. You're not doing it because there's nothing good on television, I'm guessing."
A slow blink. "Self defense is a far cry from learnin' twenty martial arts, Rossi. Most o' the kids learn ta run from anythin' they see. Always mavericks, though." He nods, slowly, to the second part. "And what do ye think this theoretical group does?"
"What the fuck /is/ this?" demands Chris, anger spiking again, quicksilver behind the eyes and echoed through the lean frame. "Twenty questions? I'm guessing from the fact that you and the Brotherhood have a bit of a beef with each other, you've got some history. It doesn't take a genius to put a few pieces together and come up with this fucking comic book bullshit."
"Every sensible person worth shit has beef wi' the Brotherhood, /Detective/." Sean keeps himself static, jaw tightening again. "An' I think ye'll find if it wasn' fer those comic book bullshitters, Liberty Island would o' been a /helluva/ lot worse. Warren Worthington would be dead. Averillix could now be spread over half o' New York. Get it, yet?"
"/Finally/." Irritation subsides, replaced by keen-eyed clarity: the professionally critical, judiciously clinical. Rossi's brow lowers, planing a dark, heavy line over over the raptor nose and eyes. "I was wondering how much of this crap we'd have to play before you admitted it."
Eyes tighten now, narrowing to form thin crow's feet at the corners. "Well done, Rossi. Now, what the hell did you want to know? Am I on the team? How many are there on it? Where's the pretty red phone to ring them?" Irritation subsides eventually, a single hand rising from its pocket to run through shaggy, reddish hair.
"Screw that. Keep your secrets," Rossi says in an outrageous and unabashed display of inconsistency. The temper that edged the harsh Brooklyn accent lapses, dying away altogether in the face of truth; in its place, weariness drags at the man, relaxing the fierce line of spine and shoulders. "Like I give a rat's ass. I don't like working in the dark, man. What's going on?"
"Jus' remember, if ye ever think ye're outgunned, or the Brotherhood're turnin' up in force, that that option is there." Sean says, partly replacing his irritation with a mild humour. "And what do ye mean, 'what's going on?'"
A hand gestures: to the roses, to the serene scene, and the uniforms still collecting witness statements. "Outgunned," says Rossi, dry as dust. "Brotherhood activity. In New York."
"No idea." Sean admits, before quiet musing drifts onto his face. "Although I think the two I ran inta today might o' actually split off from the Brotherhood proper." Shoulders lift into a shrug. "Doesn' stop 'em from needin' lockin' up, specially the little 'un."
The detective's gaze veers back, back. "Split off?" he echoes baritone sharp. "What makes you say that?"
A knowing finger rises to tap at Sean's nose, before wagging towards Rossi. "Got me sources. I'm no' certain, but I think there's a bit o' the Brotherhood split away. Don' know how many, though. An me source can be... unreliable, at times." Head tips over, waiting for response.
Silence. Rossi struggles visibly with a question, training it behind the prison of gritted teeth. "See if you can find out who and what they're capable, and what they're planning on doing," he says instead, adding with resigned loathing, "Fuck. Have to tell the goddamn Feds. I hate the G. Assholes. City's fucked up already. We need another terrorist group like I need another hole in the head."
"Ye've got free reign ta say anythin' ye want ta me, Rossi." Sean notes, before nodding, slowly. "I think this lot'll be in an' around New York itself. So ye'd best keep an eye out. No need ta tell the Feds, 'til I've ascertained if it's truth or no'." Intrigue skims across his face, brows dropping into a frown.
...and Rossi abruptly breathes a word in Italian, eyes blanking. "That pyrokinetic from last night. John. Is he--?"
"Is 'e what? An ex-student? Yes."
An impatient hand. "Everyone under the moon knows /that/. Is he one of this group breaking off?"
Another quick frown forces Sean's brows together. "I very much doubt it." Simple words for a simple sentence. "In fact, I'd go so far as ta say if 'e /was/, I'd be extremely surprised."
"Well, there's that, at least," says Rossi, without looking particularly reassured. But there are other concerns now; the witnesses have dispersed, as a sallow-faced man in governmental garb leads his troop across the scene: Forensics. "Damn. --We have to head to the station. I need your official statement. And the sketch artists need to get going on your descriptions."
"Let's move, Rossi. An' ye won't mind if I switch ta me keyboard?" Sean immediately reaches around, grabbing hold of it and beginning to tap away. RoboSean declares, "I need ta save me voice, after usin' me powers today. Jean's goin' ta kill me."
Chris pares a smile out of nothing, and manages -- after all -- to endow it with a hint of actual sardonic humor. "If she makes you quack like a duck, gimme a call. That I want to see." Hands in pockets again, long stride tired and driven, he leads the way past tape, past uniforms, past the Park's verdure: to Law, and the politic chaos waiting for Order.
[Log ends]
Rossi and NPC Toby answer a call to the Park, where they find Sean in the aftermath of a thwarted attempt to arrest Brendan.
Headed to the precinct to start the shift. Was there just long enough to get cleared by the Captain, only to get caught by Ketzinger on a call.
Cassidy. So now what? I'm too tired to think straight. One thing's for damn sure. I'm going to straighten out Alyssa if I have to beat her. Better bent than dead. Meanwhile, Cassidy's source says the Brotherhood's splintering and taking up shop in New York. Christ. Give me a double homicide any day. If I find the guy who cursed me with an interesting life, I'm going to shoot him through the head with a nail gun.
---
With the sounds of sirens approaching, Shakespeare garden is now remarkably still. From a distance, onlookers are still watching and intrigued about what is to happen. One single figure sits, hands stretched out behind him to lean on, and a scowl etched firmly across his features. Having got rid of Averillix to be dealt with later, the garden still looks out of sorts. A wall of thorny roses rises not far from Sean's position. Sitting next to him is a keyboard, attached by a wire to a PDA clipped at his waist. Absently, he brings one hand from behind him to rub at his throat.
The precinct is not /so/ far away, and the circuitous routes taken by pedestrians are not those of the NYPD. It is, oddly, mounted uniforms who appear first, galloping down the paths taken by fleeing spectators; blue-clad knights to the rescue, though the rasp of radios has little to do with any Arthurian saga. They pass in a rumble of hoofbeats, drawing up in surprise at the wall of roses. Men on foot next, uniformed and armed, trailed by willing witnesses ("/Glowy/ guy, and this /giant/--") And last, but not least: the detectives. Chris Rossi, a hand thrust in his pants pocket, the other free for use, like that cocked and ready tongue.
The brush of knuckles over his bald scalp above clustered black curls, the other hand braced splay-fingered at the hip over his belt, a snorted gust of air escapes through the nose and lips of stocky, bearded Detective Toby Ketzinger, NYPD. "One of these days I'm just going to assume," he grunts, after receiving a hasty, breathy and highly editorialized account from a witness, "that /I've/ gone crazy."
At the first sign of incoming horses, Sean shoves the keyboard back into his jacket pocket, and slowly, surely, clambers to his feet, arms rising outwards in a gesture of surrender. There he stands, and he waits.
Uniforms disperse in that time-honored tradition: securing the scene. Witnesses struggle with more harassed police to point accusing fingers, reckless of self-preservation; thus it is towards Sean that hard eyes turn, the loci for intersecting paths and hands resting casually (oh, so casually) on guns. "Sir," begins one greying female uniform--
"How big a leap is that?" Chris Rossi wants to know, pausing long enough for Ketzinger, his own coat casually flipped back over his gun's jut. "We talking believing the DA? Or we talking believing in the tooth fairy? --Hold up, Horschack. I know this guy. Cassidy." The detective offers Sean a smile, the green eyes hard and cold above the twist of mouth. "You ripping up my city?"
"Short leap," acknowledges Ketzinger with a snort, the furrow of heavy brows into a scowl that does not entirely deny the possibility of amusement. "No ropes." The harassed look in brown eyes as they focus, blearily, on Rossi's acquaintance Cassidy, suggest - bland and dark-edged - that it's been a long day. And then there's him.
"A short enough leap fer me." Sean notes calmly, before offering a nod of greeting towards his acquaintance. "Rossi. I think the technical term is 'failin' ta perform a citizen's arrest on a terrorist.'" A slow blink is performed.
Rossi's smile flattens, spare and sere against the tanned face. "Yeah?" he says, deceptively casual; Horschack's partner, lean and leonine, exchanges glances with the woman before stepping forward to begin an efficient patdown. "So tell me a story, because I been hearing some pretty wild shit on the way here. --Toby Ketzinger, Sean Cassidy. One of our guys, once upon a time."
The left palm flies up from its rest near suit-coat's pockets to rub exasperation away from the right eye; the other eye's bleak stare is measured entirely upon Cassidy. "/Failure/ to perform --" Ursine baritone cuts off into a wordless noise of displeasure. "Hi," is provided with a nod, the glowering notes reduced swiftly with the receipt of new information. "How'd you identify?"
"Identified one o' the Brotherhood o' mutants." Sean begins, indulging in a quick glance down to the patter. The only things to be revealed are his PDA and keyboard, a wallet and a set of keys. "He didn' want ta come quietly, so I took 'im down wi' me powers. 'Is friend was tougher, an' me throat gave out on me, so they got away, after,-" A nod towards the wall of roses, "-That got in me way. Identified via suspicion due ta connection wi' another person, an' then conversation." And thus ends his speech, with a somewhat wan smile.
Chris's jaw tightens, something leaping to sharp-edged attention behind his expression. "/Fuck/. That's twice in two days. --Which one did you identify?" he asks over the production of a notepad, the pen a bare half-step behind. "What's his name? And who's this other person?"
"He's called Brendan. May be goin' by the name o' Danny." Sean replies, reeling off a rapid description. "The other one, the big 'un, I'm no' sure who 'e is." But a description is given nonetheless. The scowl formed on his brow deepens, digging a deep furrow, and the line of his mouth tightens, becoming knife-edge straight.
The pen hisses in its scrawl across paper, steered in a sprawling, generous hand that eats up two pages before the description is finished. "You'll have to come by the station and talk to a sketch artist," Rossi notes, clinical over the obvious. "This Brendan that 'ghost' guy our witnesses are talking about?"
The Irishman tips his head into a quick nod. "O' course, an' happily." Level tone stretches a little, as one of the outstretched arms comes back in to rub at his throat again. "Yeah. Looked like 'e was goin' insubstantial or somethin'. Don' know what 'is powers are overall, though. I'll be needin' ta speak ta me doc at some point soon, though." A bitter admission, scored with harshly moderated anger.
"I'd say it's pretty stupid to go after Brotherhood if you don't know what you're going up against," says Rossi dryly, turning his own gaze elsewhere; green drifts to investigate the rosebush, chilling marginally behind the sink of eyelids. "Funny," he says, suddenly mild. "I don't remember the gardeners planting anything there."
Sean stiffens somewhat, hard muscles tensing within his legs, and the anger rears it's ugly head as he snaps, "I coulda handled 'em wi'out a problem, if it wasn' fer me throat an' some outside interference." His head jerks towards the rosebush. "But that's somethin' I'll be dealin' wi' meself."
Chris turns his attention back to Sean. For all the slouch of body and settled face, reciprocal, answering rage broods behind the pale eyes, reaching with padded paws to claw through baritone. "Not by yourself, buddy. --Horschack, you and Pinner mind seeing if any of these damn tourists got pictures?" Dismissal is obvious, and the female officer levels a look at Rossi before moving away without comment. Relative privacy is theirs: the two detectives and Cassidy. "Seems to me I've seen Mother Nature's work before."
Information absorbed in relative quiet, snorts and wordless grunts offered throughout Cassidy's report wherever Toby deemed them appropriate; now he shifts, drawn face aiming heavy-browed interest at his fellow detective. "Yeah?"
"Ye seem ta have forgotten what me last job was, Rossi, an' quite what it is I do." Forced calm settles uncomfortably over dark features. "Two little terrorist scumbags would be nothin' fer me, if I was at full capacity." A brow twitches, betraying surprise. "Oh yeah? Which Mother Nature's that? Jus' ta see if we're matchin' here."
"Green hair, silver eyes. French." Chris shows his teeth behind a grimace of lips that is not, by any stretch of the definition, a smile. "Not the brightest bulb on the marquee."
A passing cloud wholly uninvolved with the proceedings is fixed with Ketzinger's gloom-ridden glower. "French," he echoes, on the end of a snort, to which he also appends a growled, "Right. You know how I love the dim ones." The fingers of one hand lean against his temple, his thumb scratching at a bushy black eyebrow. He sniffs, a mildly inquisitve light in the brown eyes to accompany the beginnings of a quizzical forehead-crease, though whatever question he has for Rossi goes, for the moment, unspoken.
Sean tips his head into a nod. "Averillix. How'd ye think I spotted me perp in the first place?" Side to side his head moves, lips twisting into a wry grimace. "She thinks she's in love wi' 'im. Some sort o' danger fetish or somethin'. But keep yer mouth shut about that, fer I'll be usin' it ta catch the little bastard." Cold, hard defiance shines within his eyes.
The mouth presses tight and white, a fine, savage slash; under the old and well-used suit, muscles tighten, binding the lean frame to dormant, reined violence. Rossi is angry. "The /second/ in two days," he says again, for Toby's benefit. "I was at the other scene last night. --I should haul her ass into the station and throw away the fucking /key/, Cassidy."
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us from children and people in /love/," scowls Toby, the brace of arms folded to barricade his chest, bearded chin lowering. Ursine rumble is trotted out again as his dark glare is settled, with a certain democracy, on Rossi. "Lock 'em all up, damn the civil rights?" Edged in drollery, the if-onlys curl around the words, and he cants his beleaguered stare to Cassidy again. Brooklyn streets roll casual and bland over the edged baritone as he asks, "Catch? You baiting traps?"
"I'm aware o' the first." Sean grates, pearly whites digging against each other. "Believe me, after I've talked ta 'er, she'll prob'ly be hidin' in 'er room fer the next decade." Seething anger breaks free in a clenching of fists. "Followed 'er, 'cause I got a feelin', and coulda served up a nice terrorist patty fer ye. An' I'll thank ye not ta be a prick when it comes ta mutants."
"Fuck /mutants/," says Rossi, baritone rising to the crash and swell of throttled fury. "I'm talking about murderers and terrorists, and to /hell/ what their genes make them. Sweet Mary, Mother of God: what are you teaching these fucking children? She could have been--" The words bite off, castrated by the clench of teeth; on a long-legged, springy stride, Chris lurches into motion, bearing himself off for a moment's struggle with patience.
Dark brows furrow in confusion, blent to swift enough comprehension and a humorless snort. "Lovers. Mice. Cheese," grunts Ketzinger, as though the short-bit words serve as much clarification whatsoever. "Terrorist's a terrorist, fuck the DNA." Having thus rumbled much milder agreement to Rossi's rageful crescendo, the pithy philosopher sniffs again, glance canted after Chris with muted wonder as to whether he should follow and try and prevent the other detective from happening to anybody, before brown eyes slide heavy - not bothering to flush irritation from his gaze, however mild the tone as he speaks. "Do you have anything else for us, Mr. Cassidy?"
"I'm /tryin'/ ta teach 'em how not ta get themselves killed in the middle o' a damn park, Rossi." Sean states, jaw tight with barely suppressed fury. "There's no' much I can do about it if they're getting fucking horny over some random Brotherhood terrorist murdering dickhead, is there?" Ketzinger is the proud receiver of a quite, stoney glare, Cassidy's fists are jammed into pockets. "I'll find yer terrorist, an' I'll bring 'im ta ye trussed up an' beggin' ta be locked up. Apart from that, all I need is ta be asked."
A quick exploration of the scene's perimeter proves only marginally soothing to the bubble and acid of temper, but it suffices enough to restore Rossi to the semblance (at least) of composure. Sans casualties, he replaces himself as the third in their trio, fists thrust stiff-armed into abused pockets. "They should be locked up in convents until they're thirty," he grits, green eyes brilliant. "How close is your voice to being fixed?"
Ketzinger eyes Casssidy for a stretching silent moment, measuring, contemplating. Rossi's return is greeted with nothing more than a glance arms loosed from their barricade to allow one hand to brush against his chin, the dull gleam of gold on his ring finger stark incongruity against the dark beard.
Sean somehow manipulates his lips into a bitterly wry smile. "Thirty five, minimum. An' we're lookin' at another week or so, 'fore I'm prop'ly sorted, I think. Maybe two. Why? Ye need some experienced backup?" Sparkling blue, cold and relatively expressionless, level on each detective in turn.
"Two in two days," reminds Rossi, adding on another jangled note of savagery, "Feds are going to be crawling up our asses. Brotherhood's been quiet since that damn prison breakout, so what gives?" The hands safely stored in pockets reappear, wrenched free by Italian gestures: swift, sweeping eloquence. "You realize nobody's died yet? I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Do I look like an expert on the Brotherhood?" Sean asks, eyes suddenly wary. He nods at the last, lids drooping down for a second, as he takes time to inhale a long and deep breath. "The fact that no-one's died could mean any number o' things. Not the least o' which is that Magneto doesn' want ta kill at the moment."
Rossi ignores the latter. Instead, attention crouches at the former, curling in a predator's gleaming-eyed wait before the rabbit hole. "/Are/ you?"
A heavy look locks on Rossi's eyes. "What do /you/ think?" Sean stays static, muscles holding firm and knuckles whitening within pockets.
"I think that Mutantland's a pretty small community." Eyes slip askance to Toby, then refocus. "I think there's a lot you're not telling me, Cassidy."
"An' I think Jean's told ye ta talk ta Archer." Sean replies, blinking slowly. "Else I'd be telling ye a lot more."
Teeth show white. "Already did."
"Then what did 'e tell ye?"
"More than you're telling me," says Rossi, voice hard. "Most of the stuff I'd already figured out."
"Go on then." Sean replies, bland innocence trickling over his features. "'Less ye'd rather yer coleague didn' hear."
"Ketzinger," says Rossi, as abrupt in the dismissal of his colleague as he was with the uniforms: how to win friends and influence people, forsooth. In the slightly diminished circle then, he says in succinct, bite-sized pieces, "Mutants and humans at your school. Federal involvement. Training them to use their powers. And a ... group."
Obedient as a police dog: it is only a snort that prefaces Toby Ketzinger's hands-in-pockets shuffle away from the other two.
"Doesn' it make sense ta teach the kids ta control their abilities ta the best o' their ability?" Sean counters, fairly mildly. "An' what exactly do ye know about a group?" Probing questions, searching for the limits of Rossi's knowledge.
Eyes glitter. "Teaching them to /fight/?" asks Rossi, sweet as curdled milk. "And the group I figured for myself. Summers. The weather girl. You're not doing it because there's nothing good on television, I'm guessing."
A slow blink. "Self defense is a far cry from learnin' twenty martial arts, Rossi. Most o' the kids learn ta run from anythin' they see. Always mavericks, though." He nods, slowly, to the second part. "And what do ye think this theoretical group does?"
"What the fuck /is/ this?" demands Chris, anger spiking again, quicksilver behind the eyes and echoed through the lean frame. "Twenty questions? I'm guessing from the fact that you and the Brotherhood have a bit of a beef with each other, you've got some history. It doesn't take a genius to put a few pieces together and come up with this fucking comic book bullshit."
"Every sensible person worth shit has beef wi' the Brotherhood, /Detective/." Sean keeps himself static, jaw tightening again. "An' I think ye'll find if it wasn' fer those comic book bullshitters, Liberty Island would o' been a /helluva/ lot worse. Warren Worthington would be dead. Averillix could now be spread over half o' New York. Get it, yet?"
"/Finally/." Irritation subsides, replaced by keen-eyed clarity: the professionally critical, judiciously clinical. Rossi's brow lowers, planing a dark, heavy line over over the raptor nose and eyes. "I was wondering how much of this crap we'd have to play before you admitted it."
Eyes tighten now, narrowing to form thin crow's feet at the corners. "Well done, Rossi. Now, what the hell did you want to know? Am I on the team? How many are there on it? Where's the pretty red phone to ring them?" Irritation subsides eventually, a single hand rising from its pocket to run through shaggy, reddish hair.
"Screw that. Keep your secrets," Rossi says in an outrageous and unabashed display of inconsistency. The temper that edged the harsh Brooklyn accent lapses, dying away altogether in the face of truth; in its place, weariness drags at the man, relaxing the fierce line of spine and shoulders. "Like I give a rat's ass. I don't like working in the dark, man. What's going on?"
"Jus' remember, if ye ever think ye're outgunned, or the Brotherhood're turnin' up in force, that that option is there." Sean says, partly replacing his irritation with a mild humour. "And what do ye mean, 'what's going on?'"
A hand gestures: to the roses, to the serene scene, and the uniforms still collecting witness statements. "Outgunned," says Rossi, dry as dust. "Brotherhood activity. In New York."
"No idea." Sean admits, before quiet musing drifts onto his face. "Although I think the two I ran inta today might o' actually split off from the Brotherhood proper." Shoulders lift into a shrug. "Doesn' stop 'em from needin' lockin' up, specially the little 'un."
The detective's gaze veers back, back. "Split off?" he echoes baritone sharp. "What makes you say that?"
A knowing finger rises to tap at Sean's nose, before wagging towards Rossi. "Got me sources. I'm no' certain, but I think there's a bit o' the Brotherhood split away. Don' know how many, though. An me source can be... unreliable, at times." Head tips over, waiting for response.
Silence. Rossi struggles visibly with a question, training it behind the prison of gritted teeth. "See if you can find out who and what they're capable, and what they're planning on doing," he says instead, adding with resigned loathing, "Fuck. Have to tell the goddamn Feds. I hate the G. Assholes. City's fucked up already. We need another terrorist group like I need another hole in the head."
"Ye've got free reign ta say anythin' ye want ta me, Rossi." Sean notes, before nodding, slowly. "I think this lot'll be in an' around New York itself. So ye'd best keep an eye out. No need ta tell the Feds, 'til I've ascertained if it's truth or no'." Intrigue skims across his face, brows dropping into a frown.
...and Rossi abruptly breathes a word in Italian, eyes blanking. "That pyrokinetic from last night. John. Is he--?"
"Is 'e what? An ex-student? Yes."
An impatient hand. "Everyone under the moon knows /that/. Is he one of this group breaking off?"
Another quick frown forces Sean's brows together. "I very much doubt it." Simple words for a simple sentence. "In fact, I'd go so far as ta say if 'e /was/, I'd be extremely surprised."
"Well, there's that, at least," says Rossi, without looking particularly reassured. But there are other concerns now; the witnesses have dispersed, as a sallow-faced man in governmental garb leads his troop across the scene: Forensics. "Damn. --We have to head to the station. I need your official statement. And the sketch artists need to get going on your descriptions."
"Let's move, Rossi. An' ye won't mind if I switch ta me keyboard?" Sean immediately reaches around, grabbing hold of it and beginning to tap away. RoboSean declares, "I need ta save me voice, after usin' me powers today. Jean's goin' ta kill me."
Chris pares a smile out of nothing, and manages -- after all -- to endow it with a hint of actual sardonic humor. "If she makes you quack like a duck, gimme a call. That I want to see." Hands in pockets again, long stride tired and driven, he leads the way past tape, past uniforms, past the Park's verdure: to Law, and the politic chaos waiting for Order.
[Log ends]
Rossi and NPC Toby answer a call to the Park, where they find Sean in the aftermath of a thwarted attempt to arrest Brendan.